U-, 


The 
SPLENDID  OUTCAST 


By   George   Gibbs 

The  Splendid  Outcast 

The  Black  Stone 
The  Golden  Bough 
The  Secret  Witness 

Paradise  Garden 

The  Yellow  Dove 

The  Flaming  Sword 

Madcap 

The  Silent  Battle 

The  Maker  of  Opportunities 

The  Forbidden  Way 

The  Bolted  Door 

Tony's  Wife 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 


SHE   CROUCHED,    WATCHING,    BREATHLESS   AND    UNCERTAIN 

[PAGE    109] 


The 
SPLENDID    OUTCAST 


BY 

GEORGE  GIBBS 

ACTHOB  OF  "THE  SECBET  WITNESS,"  "THE  GOLDEN  BODQH,'- 
"THE  YELLOW  DOVE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

GEORGE    GIBBS 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,   BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 


Copyright,  1919,  by 

rfff\  BED   BOOK   COUPOBATIOS 


pnrsrxED  n»  THE  uaimaj  BTATES  or  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  THE  CONVALESCENT 1 

II.  THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 15 

III.  THE  GOOSE £7 

IV.  OUTCAST 44 

V.  PlQUETTE 60 

VI.  YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 73 

VII.  AWAKENING 89 

VIII.  THREATS 101 

IX.  PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 115 

X.  THE  SAMARITAN 133 

XI.  CONFESSIONS 145 

XII.  QUINLEVIN  SPEAKS 160 

XIII.  BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 175 

XIV.  A  NIGHT  ATTACK ...  187 

XV.  GREEN  EYES £01 

XVI.  NORA  SPEAKS 215 

XVII.  JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 230 

XVIII.  AT  BAY 243 

XIX.  IN  THE  DARK  .     .     .     .'     ...     .j 256 

XX.  FREEDOM ;    .; 271 

XXI.  THE  PETIT  BLEU 282 

XXII.  MYSTERY .     .  296 

XXIII.  ESCAPE 309 

XXIV.  THE  CLUE 324 

XXV.  THE  CONCLUSION      .     .     .     .  • 342 


2135783 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

She  crouched,  watching,  breathless  and  uncertain 

Frontispiece 

Moira  talked  gayly 38 

Through  Moira's  clear  intelligence  the  epic  filtered       .       78 

The  mirror  sent  her  back  a  haggard  reflection,  pale 
and  somber  202 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 


CHAPTER   I 
THE  CONVALESCENT 

JIM  HORTON  awoke  in  high  fever  and  great  pain 
but  the  operation  upon  his  skull  had  been  successful 
and  it  was  believed  that  he  would  recover.  Some- 
thing as  to  the  facts  of  the  exploit  of  the  wounded  man 
had  come  to  the  hospital  and  he  was  an  object  of  especial 
solicitude  by  both  surgeons  and  nurses.  They  had  worked 
hard  to  save  him  that  he  might  be  alive  for  the  decoration 
that  was  sure  to  come  and  the  night  had  brought  a  dis- 
tinct improvement  in  his  condition.  The  nurse  still 
•watched  his  breathing  eagerly  and  wrote  down  the  new 
and  favorable  record  upon  the  chart  by  his  bedside.  Miss 
Newberry  was  not  in  the  least  sentimental  and  the  war 
had  blunted  her  sensibilities,  but  there  was  no  denying  the 
fact  that  when  the  dressing  was  removed  from  his  head 
the  patient  was  extremely  good  to  look  at.  He  rewarded 
her  on  the  morrow  with  a  smile. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here?"  he  murmured  hazily. 

"Six  days,"  she  replied;  "but  you  mustn't  talk." 

"Six—?   Wounded " 

"Sh — .     In  the  head,  shoulder  and  leg,  but  you're  do- 
ing nicely." 

"Won't  you  tell  me ?"  he  began. 

But  she  soothed  him  gently.      "Not  now — later  per- 
haps.   You  must  sleep  again.    Drink  this — please." 
1 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Horton  obeyed,  for  he  found  himself  too  weak  to  oppose 
her.  It  was  very  restful  here ;  he  wriggled  his  toes  luxu- 
riously against  the  soft  sheets  for  a  moment.  If  things 
would  only  stop  whirling  around.  .  .  .  And  the  pain 
.  .  .  but  that  seemed  to  cease  again  and  he  slept.  In- 
deed his  awakening  was  only  to  half-consciousness.  Other 
days  and  nights  followed  when  he  lay  in  a  sort  of  doze, 
aware  of  much  suffering  and  a  great  confusion  of  thought. 
But  slowly,  as  he  grew  stronger,  the  facts  of  his  present 
position  emerged  from  the  dimness  and  with  them  a  mild 
curiosity,  scarcely  lucid  as  yet,  as  to  how  he  had  gotten 
there.  At  last  there  came  a  morning  when  the  fog  upon 
his  memory  seemed  to  roll  aside  and  he  began  to  recall 
one  by  one  the  incidents  that  had  preceded  his  uncon- 
sciousness. 

There  had  been  a  fight.  Some  fight  that  was.  Huns 
all  over  the  place — in  a  ring  around  the  rocks,  up  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees — everywhere.  But  he  had  held  on 
until  the  Boches  had  started  to  run  when  the  American 
line  advanced.  He  remembered  that  the  Engineers  could 
do  other  things  besides  build  saps  and  bridges.  Good  old 
Engineers !  Something  was  wrong — somewhere. 

Out  of  his  clouded  brain,  slowly,  the  facts  came  to  him 
— things  that  had  happened  before  the  fight — just  be- 
fore. Harry — his  twin  brother  Harry,  lying  in  the  ditch 
just  behind  Jim's  squad  of  Engineers,  a  coward,  in  a 
blue  funk — afraid  to  carry  out  his  Major's  orders  to  go 
forward  and  investigate.  A  coward,  of  course!  Harry 
would  be.  He  had  always  been  a  coward. 

Jim  Horton  sighed,  his  mind,  ambling  weakly  into  va- 
cancy, suddenly  arrested  by  a  query. 

What  else? — What  else  had  happened?     Something  to 
do   with    the    remarkable    likeness   between    himself    and 
Harry?     The  likeness, — so  strong  that  only  their  own 
mother  had  been  able  to  tell  them  apart. 
2 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


Memory  came  to  him  with  a  rush.  He  remembered  now 
what  had  happened  in  the  darkness,  what  he  had  done. 
Taken  Harry's  lieutenant's  uniform,  giving  the  coward 
his  own  corporal's  outfit.  Then  he,  Jim  Horton,  had 
gone  on  and  carried  out  the  Major's  orders,  leaving  the 
coward  writhing  in  the  ditch. 

By  George! the  fight — he,  Jim  Horton,  had  won 

the  victory  at  Boissiere  Wood  for  the  — th  Infantry—* 
for  Harry! — as  Harry! 

Perhaps,  he  was  really  Harry  and  not  Jim  Horton  at 
all?  He  glanced  around  him  curiously,  as  though  some- 
what amused  at  the  metempyschosis.  And  then  thought- 
fully shook  his  head. 

No.  He  was  Jim  Horton,  all  right — Jim  Horton^ 
There  was  no  mistake  about  that. 

But  Harry !  Imagine  meeting  Harry  in  a  situation  like 
that  after  all  these  years !  A  coward !  Not  that  t hat  was 
a  very  surprising  thing.  Harry  had  always  been  a  quitter. 
There  was  nothing  that  Harry  could  do  or  be  that  wasn't 
utterly  despicable  in  the  eyes  of  his  brother  Jim,  and 
after  having  spent  the  best  part  of  five  years  trying  to 
live  the  memory  of  Harry  down 

The  nurse  appeared  silently  and  looked  into  Jim  Hor- 
ton's  eyes.  He  closed  them  a  moment  and  then  smiled 
at  her. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  she  asked. 

"Better — lots  better,"  he  answered;  "you  see,  I  can 
really  think—" 

"I  wouldn't  try  to  do  that — not  yet." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right."  And  the  nurse  was  ready  for  the 
first  time  to  believe  that  her  patient  was  to  remain  this 
side  of  the  border  line  of  the  dim  realm  into  which  she 
had  seen  so  many  go,  for  his  eyes  were  clear  and  he  spoke 
with  definite  assurance.  But  the  question  that  he  asked 
made  her  dubious  again. 

3 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"I  say,  nurse,  would  you  mind  telling  me  what  my 
name  is?" 

She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  as  though  a  little  disap- 
pointed and  then  replied  quietly:  "Lieutenant  Henry  G. 
Horton,  of  the  th  Infantry." 

«0h,"  said  the  patient,  "I  see." 

"I  think  you'd  better  sleep  a  while,  then  I  want  the 
Major  to  see  you." 

"Oh,  don't  bother ;  I'm  coming  through  all  right,  now. 
I'm  sure  of  it.  But  I  want  to  tell  you " 

The  nurse  silenced  him  gently,  then  felt  his  pulse  and 
after  another  glance  at  him  moved  to  the  next  bed.  It 
had  been  a  wonderful  operation,  but  then  they  couldn't 
expect  the  impossible. 

Jim  Horton  closed  his  eyes,  but  he  didn't  sleep.  With 
the  shadow  of  death  still  hovering  over  him,  he  was  trying 
to  think  charitably  of  Harry,  of  the  man  who  had  worked 
such  havoc  in  the  lives  of  those  nearest  him.  The  five 
years  that  had  passed  since  the  death  of  their  mother — 
poor,  tired  soul  who  until  the  end  believed  the  whole  thing 
a  mistake — could  not  have  been  fruitful  in  anything  but 
evil  in  the  life  of  the  reprobate  twin-brother  who  had 
robbed  the  family  of  what  had  been  left  of  the  estate  and 
then  fled  away  from  the  small  town  where  they  lived  to 
the  gay  lights  of  New  York.  And  now  here  he  was — an 
officer  of  the  United  States  Army  where  commissions  do 
not  come  without  merit.  What  did  it  mean?  Harry  was 
always  clever  enough,  too  clever  by  half.  Had  he  quit 
drinking?  Was  he  living  straight?  There  seemed  but 
one  answer  to  these  questions,  or  he  could  not  have  held 
his  job  in  the  army.  His  job!  His  commission  wouldn't 
last  long  if  his  commanding  officer  knew  what  Jim  Hor- 
ton did. 

They  all  thought  that  the  patient  in  the  hospital  bed 

was  Harry  Horton,  a  Lieutenant  of  the th  Infantry,; 

4 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


The  corporal  had  won  the  lieutenant  some  glory,  it 
seemed,  instead  of  the  ruin  that  awaited  the  discovery 
of  the  cowardice  and  disobedience  of  orders.  But  the 
substitution  would  be  discovered  unless  Jim  Horton  could 
find  his  brother  Harry.  And  how  was  he  going  to  manage 
that  from  his  hospital  bed? 

A  gentle  perspiration  exuded  from  Jim  Horton's  pores. 
Being  surrounded  by  Boches  in  the  wood  was  distinctly 
less  hazardous  than  this.  And  so  when  the  nurse  re- 
turned with  the  Major,  he  did  his  best  to  straighten  out 
the  tangle.  The  Major  was  much  pleased  at  the  patient's 
progress,  made  a  suggestion  or  two  about  a  change  in 
the  treatment  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning  away  when 
Horton  spoke. 

"Would  you  mind,  sir — just  a  word?" 

"Of  course.     Something  bothering  you?" 

"Yes.    You  see "  the  patient  hesitated  again,  his  lip 

twisting,  "this  whole  thing  is  a  mistake." 

The  doctor  eyed  the  sick  man  narrowly. 

"A  mistake?"    And  then  kindly,  "I  don't  understand." 

Horton  frowned  at  the  bed-rail.  "You  see,  sir,  I'm 
not  Henry  G.  Horton.  I — I'm  somebody  else." 

He  saw  the  nurse  and  the  doctor  exchange  glances* 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  medical  man  with  a  smile,  "I 
wouldn't  bother  about  it." 

"But  I  do  bother  about  it,  sir.  I've  got  to  tell  you. 
I'm  another  man.  I  changed  uniforms  with — with  an- 
other fellow  in  the  dark,"  he  finished  uneasily. 

The  same  look  passed  between  nurse  and  surgeon  and 
then  he  saw  Miss  Newberry's  head  move  slightly  from 
left  to  right.  The  doctor  rose. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Don't  let  it  bother  you,  my  man. 
We'll  get  you  all  untangled  presently.  Just  try  not  to 
think ;  you're  doing  nicely." 

And  the  Major  moved  slowly  down  the  ward. 
5 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Jim  Horton  frowned  at  the  medical  officer's  broad 
back. 

"Thinks  I'm  nutty,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  then 
grinned.  The  story  was  a  little  wild. 

When  the  Major  had  left  the  ward,  the  nurse  came 
back  and  smoothed  Horton's  pillow.  "You're  to  be  very 
quiet,"  she  said  gently,  "and  sleep  all  you  can." 

"But,  nurse,"  he  protested,  "I  don't  want  to  sleep  any 
more.  I  told  him  the  truth.  I've  taken  another  man's 
place." 

"You  did  it  very  well,  from  all  accounts,"  she  said  with 
a  smile;  "and  you'll  take  another  man's  before  long,  they 
say." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Promotion,"  she  laughed;  "but  you  won't  get  it  if 
you  have  a  relapse." 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  a  relapse.  I'm  all  right.  Bet- 
ter every  day,  and  I'd  like  you  to  understand  that  I  know 
exactly  what  I'm  saying.  I  took  another  man's  job.  He 
was — was  sick  and  I  took  his  place.  I'm  not  Lieutenant 
Horton,  nurse." 

"You  may  be  whatever  you  please,  if  you'll  only  go  to 
sleep." 

"Bless  your  heart!  That  isn't  going  to  change  my 
identity." 

His  positiveness  rather  startled  her  and  made  her  pause 
and  stare  at  him  soberly.  But  in  a  moment  her  lips  curved 
into  a  smile,  rather  tender  and  sympathetic.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  let  this  illusion  grow,  so  gently  she  said:  "Your 
authenticity  is  well  vouched  for.  The  report  of  your 
company  Captain — the  Sergeant-Major  of  your  battal- 
ion. You  see,  you've  become  rather  a  famous  person  in 

the  th.  I've  seen  some  of  your  papers,  they're  all 

quite  regular.  Even  your  identification  disk.  It's  here 
in  the  drawer  with  some  other  things  that  were  in  your 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


pockets,  so  please  relax  and  sleep  again,  won't  you?  I 
mustn't  talk  to  you.  It's  contrary  to  orders." 

"But  nurse " 

She  patted  him  gently  on  the  arm,  put  a  warning  fin- 
ger to  her  lips,  and  silently  stole  away.  His  gaze  fol- 
lowed her  the  length  of  the  room  until  she  disappeared 
through  the  door  when  he  sank  back  on  his  pillows  with 
a  groan. 

"Nutty!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  "wonder  if  I  am." 
He  touched  the  bandage  and  realized  that  his  head  was 
beginning  to  throb  again.  "No,  I'm  Jim  Horton  all 
right,  there's  no  doubt  about  that,  but  how  I'm  going 
to  make  these  seraphic  idiots  believe  it  is  more  than  Lean 
see.  That  Sergeant!  And  the  men.  .  .  .  By  George! 
And  the  Sergeant-Ma j  or.  Probably  looked  me  over  at 
the  dressing  station.  Oh,  Lord,  what  a  mess !" 

Things  began  whirling  around  and  Jim  Horton  closed 
his  eyes ;  he  wasn't  quite  as  strong  as  he  thought  he  was, 
and  after  a  while  he  slept  again. 

Downstairs  in  the  Major's  office  two  surgeons  and  the 
nurse  in  charge  were  discussing  the  case. 

"Queer  obsession  that.  Thinks  he's  another  man.  There 
may  be  some  pressure  there  yet.  It  ought  to  have  cleared 
up  by  this." 

"It's  shock,  sir,  I  think.  He'll  come  out  of  it.  He's 
coming  on,  Miss  Newberry?" 

"Splendidly.  That's  what  I  can't  understand.  He 
looks  as  though  he  knew  what  he  was  saying." 

"Any  chance  of  there  being  a  mistake?" 

"None  at  all,  sir.  Doctor  Rawson  came  down  with 
him  in  the  ambulance,  his  own  company  captain  was  there 
when  the  patient  was  given  first  aid.  He  would  have 
known  his  own  lieutenant,  sir.  There  can't  be  any  mis- 
take, but  he  has  scarcely  any  fever " 

7 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Never  mind,  keep  an  extra  eye  on  him.  The  wound  is 
healing  nicely.  He'll  come  through  all  right." 

So  Nurse  N&wberry  returned  to  the  ward,  somewhat 
gratified  to  find  her  charge  again  peacefully  asleep. 

The  next  day  the  patient  did  not  revert  to  his  obses- 
sion, but  lay  very  quiet  looking  out  of  the  window.  His 
failure  to  reveal  his  secret  left  him  moody  and  thought- 
ful. But  his  temperature  was  normal  and  he  was  without 
pain. 

"You  say  there  were  some  things  in  the  pockets  of — 
of  my  blouse,"  he  asked  of  the  nurse. 

"Yes,  would  you  like  to  have  them?"  The  patient 
nodded  and  she  gave  them  to  him,  the  identification  disk, 
a  wrist  watch,  some  money,  a  note-book  and  some  papers. 
He  looked  them  over  in  an  abstracted  way,  sinking  back 
on  his  pillow  at  last,  holding  the  letters  in  his  hand.  Then 
at  last  as  though  coming  to  a  difficult  decision,  he  took 
one  of  the  letters  out  of  its  envelope  and  began  reading. 

It  was  in  a  feminine  hand  and  added  more  heavily  to 
the  burden  of  his  responsibilities. 

"Dear  Harry"  (it  ran) : 

"I'm  just  back  to  my  room,  a  wife  of  three  hours  with  a 
honeymoon  in  a  railway  station!  It  all  seems  such  a  mis- 
take— without  even  an  old  shoe  to  bless  myself  with.  If 
I've  helped  you  I'm  glad  of  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  lie  just 
to  square  us  two  with  the  Almighty  for  the  mockery  I've 
been  through.  I  don't  love  you,  Harry,  and  you  know  that. 
I  did  what  Dad  asked  me  to  do  and  I'd  do  it  again  if  he 
asked  me. 

"He  seems  restless  to-night,  and  talks  about  going  back 
to  Paris.  I  suppose  I  could  do  something  over  there  for  I've 
lost  all  impulse  for  my  work.  Perhaps  we'll  come  and  then 
you  could  run  up  and  see  us.  I'll  try  to  be  nice  to  you,  Harry, 
T  will  really.  You  know  there's  always  been  something  lack- 
ing in  me.  I  seem  to  have  given  everything  to  my  painting, 
so  there's  very  little  left  for  you,  which  is  the  Irish  in  me  say- 
ing I'm  a  heartless  hussy. 

8 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


"Soon  I'll  be  sending  you  the  pair  of  gray  socks  which  I 
knitted  with  my  own  hands.  They're  bunchy  in  spots  and 
there's  a  knot  or  two  here  and  there,  but  I  hope  you  can  wear 
them — for  the  Deil's  own  time  I  had  making  them.  Good- 
night. I  suppose  that  I  should  be  feeling  proud  at  my  sacri- 
fice; I  don't,  somehow,  but  I'll  be  feeling  glad  if  you  have 
another  bar  to  your  shoulder.  That  might  make  me  proud, 
knowing  that  I'd  helped. 

MOIRA." 

"P.  S.  Don't  be  getting  killed  or  anything;  I  never  wanted 
to  marry  anybody  but  I  don't  want  you  done  away  with. 
Besides,  I've  a  horror  of  crepe. 

M." 

Jim  Horton  read  the  letter  through  furtively  with  a 
growing  sense  of  intrusion.  It  was  like  listening  at  a  con- 
fessional or  peering  through  a  keyhole.  And  somehow  its 
ingenuous  frankness  aroused  his  interest.  Harry  had 
been  married  to  this  girl  who  didn't  love  him  and  she 
had  consented  because  her  father  had  wanted  her  to.  He 
felt  unaccountably  indignant  on  her  account  against 
Harry  and  the  father.  Pretty  name — Moira !  Like 
something  out  of  a  book.  She  seemed  to  breathe  both 
youth  and  hope  tinged  horribly  with  regret.  He  liked 
her  handwriting  which  had  dashed  into  her  thoughts  im- 
pulsively, and  he  also  liked  the  slight  scent  of  sachet 
which  still  clung  to  the  paper.  He  liked  the  girl  better, 
pitied  her  the  more,  because  her  instinct  had  been  so 
unerring.  If  she  had  thrown  herself  away  she  had  done 
it  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  A  girl  who  could  make  such 
a  sacrifice  from  lofty  motives,  would  hardly  condone  the 
thing  that  Harry  had  been  guilty  of.  A  coward.  .  .  . 

There  was  another  letter,  of  a  much  later  date,  in  a 
masculine  hand.  Jim  Horton  hesitated  for  a  moment 
and  then  took  it  out  of  its  envelope. 

"Harry  boy,"  he  read,  "so  far  as  I  can  see  at  this  writing 
the  whole  thing  has  gone  to  the  demnition  bow-wows.     Sud- 
9 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

denly,  without  a  by-your-leave,  the  money  stopped  coming. 
I  wrote  de  V.  and  cabled,  but  the  devil  of  a  reply  did  he  give. 
So  I'm  coming  to  Paris  with  Moira  at  once  and  it  looks  as 
though  we'd  have  to  put  the  screws  on.  But  I'd  be  feeling 
better  if  the  papers  were  all  ship-shape  and  Bristol  fashion. 
You'll  have  to  help.  Maybe  the  uniform  will  turn  the  odd 
trick.  If  it  don't  we'll  find  some  way. 

"I  feel  guilty  as  Hell  about  Moira.  If  you  ever  make  her 
unhappy  I'll  have  the  blood  of  your  heart.  But  I'm  hoping 
that  the  love  will  come  if  you  play  the  game  straight  with  her. 

"Meanwhile  we'll  feather  the  nest  if  we  can.  He's  got  to 
'come  across.'  There's  some  agency  working  against  us — 
and  I've  got  to  be  on  the  scene  to  ferret — instanter.  Moira 
got  some  portraits  to  do  or  we  wouldn't  have  had  the  where- 
withal for  the  passage.  As  it  is,  I'll  be  having  to  make  the 
move  with  considerable  skill,  leaving  some  obligations  behind. 
But  it  can't  be  helped,  and  Moira  won't  know.  The  world  is 
but  a  poor  place  for  the  man  who  doesn't  make  it  give  him 
a  living.  Mine  has  been  wretched  enough,  God  knows,  and 
the  whisky  one  buys  over  the  bar  in  New  York  is  an  insult 
to  an  Irishman's  intelligence,  to  say  nothing  of  being  a  plague 
upon  his  vitals. 

"Enough  of  this.  Come  to  the  Rue  de  Tavennes,  No.  7, 
in  your  next  furlough,  and  we'll  make  a  move.  By  that  time 
I'll  have  a  plan.  Moira  sends  her  love. 

"Yours  very  faithfully, 

"BARRY  QUINLEVIN. 

"P.  S.  There  was  a  pretty  squall  brewing  over  the  Stam- 
ford affair,  but  I  reefed  sail  and  weathered  it.  So  you  can 
sleep  in  peace. 

B.  Q." 

Jim  Horton  lay  for  a  while  thinking  and  then  read  the 
two  letters  again.  The  masculine  correspondent  was  the 
girl's  father.  Barry  Quinlevin,  it  seemed,  was  a  scoun- 
drel of  sorts — and  the  girl  adored  him.  Many  of  the 
passages  in  the  letter  were  mystifying.  Who  was  de 
V ?  And  what  was  Harry's  connection  with  this  af- 
fair? It  was  none  of  Jim  Horton's  business,  but  in  spite 
of  himself  he  began  feeling  an  intense  sympathy  for  the 
10 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


girl  Moira,  who  was  wrapped  in  the  coils  of  what  seemed 
on  its  face  to  be  an  ugly  intrigue,  if  it  wasn't  something 
worse. 

Strange  name,  Quinlevin.  It  was  Moira's  name  too, 
Irish.  The  phrase  about  having  Harry's  heart's  blood 
showed  that  Barry  Quinlevin  wasn't  beyond  compunctions 
about  the  girl.  But  why  had  he  connived  at  this  loveless 
marriage?  There  must  have  been  a  reason  for  that. 

Jim  Horton  put  the  letters  in  the  drawer  and  gave  the 
problem  up.  It  wasn't  his  business  whom  Harry  had  mar- 
ried or  why.  The  main  thing  was  to  get  well  and  out  of 
the  hospital  so  that  he  could  find  his  brother  and  set  the 
tangle  straight. 

He  couldn't  imagine  just  how  the  substitution  was  to 
be  accomplished,  but  if  Harry  had  played  the  game  there 
was  a  chance  that  it  might  yet  be  done.  He  didn't  want- 
Harry's  job.  And  he  silently  cursed  himself  for  the  un- 
fortunate impetuous  moment  that  had  brought  about  all 
the  trouble.  But  how  had  he  known  that  he  was  going 
to  be  hit?  If  he  had  only  succeeded  in  getting  back  to 
the  spot  where  Harry  was  waiting  for  him,  no  one  would 
ever  have  been  the  wiser.  No  one  knew  now,  but  of  course 
the  masquerade  couldn't  last  forever.  The  situation  was 
impossible. 

Meanwhile  what  was  Harry  doing?  Had  he  succeeded 
in  playing  out  the  game  during  Jim  Horton's  sickness, 
or  had  he  found  himself  in  a  tight  place  and  quit?  It 
would  have  been  easy  enough.  Horton  shivered  slightly. 
Desertion,  flight,  ignominy,  disgrace.  And  it  wasn't 
Harry  Horton's  good  name  that  would  be  in  question, 
but  his  own,  that  of  Jim  Horton,  Corporal  of  Engineers. 
As  a  name,  it  didn't  stand  for  much  yet,  even  out  in 
Kansas  City,  but  he  had  never  done  anything  to  dishonor 
it  and  he  didn't  want  the  few  friends  he  had  to  think  of 
him  as  a  quitter.  Nobody  had  ever  accused  him  of  being 
11 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

that.     What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  take  such  a  chance 
for  a  man  like  Harry ! 

In  the  midst  of  these  troublesome  meditations,  he  was 
aware  of  Nurse  Newberry  approaching  from  the  end  of 
the  ward.  Following  her  were  two  people  who  stopped 
at  his  bed,  a  man  and  a  girl.  The  man  was  strong,  with 
grizzled  hair,  a  bobbed  Imperial  and  a  waxed  mustache. 
The  girl  had  black  hair  and  slate-blue  eyes.  And  even 
as  Jim  Horton  stared  at  them,  he  was  aware  of  the  man 
confidently  approaching  and  taking  his  hand. 

"Well,  Harry,  don't  you  know  me?"  a  voice  said. 
"Rather  hazy,  eh?  I  don't  wonder.  .  .  ." 

Who  the  devil  were  these  people?  There  must  be  a 
mistake.  Jim  Horton  mumbled  something.  The  visitor's 
eyes  were  very  dark  brown  shot  with  tiny  streaks  of  yel- 
low and  he  looked  like  an  amiable  satyr. 

"I've  brought  Moira — thought  ye'd  like  to  see  her." 

The  patient  started — then  recovered  himself.  He  had 
forgotten  the  lapse  of  time  since  the  letters  had  been 
written. 

"Moira,"  he  muttered. 

The  girl  advanced  slowly  as  the  man  made  place.  Her 
expression  had  been  serious,  but  as  she  came  forward  she 
smiled  softly. 

"Harry,"  she  was  whispering,  as  he  stared  at  her  love- 
liness, "don't  you  know  me?" 

"Moira !"  he  muttered  weakly.  "I'm  not "    But  his 

hands  made  no  movement  toward  her  and  a  warm  flush 
spread  over  the  part  of  his  face  that  was  visible. 

"You've  been  very  sick,  Harry.  But  we  came  as  soon 
as  they'd  let  us.  And  you're  going  to  get  well,  thank  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  then " 

"I'm  not "  the  words  stuck  in  Jim  Horton's  throat.; 

And  he  couldn't  utter  them. 

"You're  not  what?"  she  questioned  anxiously. 
12 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


Another  pause  of  uncertainty. 

"I — I'm  not — very  strong  yet,"  he  muttered  weakly, 
turning  his  head  to  one  side. 

And  as  he  said  it,  he  knew  that  in  sheer  weakness  of 
fiber,  spiritual  as  well  as  physical,  he  had  made  a  decision. 

The  Satyr  behind  her  laughed  softly. 

"Naturally,"  he  said,  "but  ye're  going  to  be  well  very 
soon." 

They  were  both  looking  at  him  and  something  seemed 
to  be  required  of  him.  So  with  an  effort, 

"How  long — how  long  have  you  been  in  France?"  he 
asked. 

"Only  three  weeks,"  said  Quinlevin,  "watching  the  bul- 
letins daily  for  news  of  you.  I  found  out  a  week  ago,  but 
they  wouldn't  let  us  in  until  to-day.  And  we  can  stay  only 
five  minutes.  " 

Then  Moira  spoke  again,  with  a  different  note  in  her 
voice. 

"Are  you  glad  that  I  came?"  she  asked.  "It  was  the 
least  I  could  do." 

"Glad !" 

The  word  seemed  sufficient.  Jim  Horton  seemed  glad 
to  utter  it.  If  she  would  only  recognize  the  imposture  and 
relieve  him  of  the  terrible  moment  of  confession.  But  she 
didn't.  She  had  accepted  him  as  Quinlevin,  as  all  the 
others  had  done,  for  his  face  value,  without  a  sign  of 
doubt. 

And  Barry  Quinlevin  stood  beaming  upon  them  both, 
his  bright  eyes  snapping  benevolence. 

"If  ye  get  the  V,  C.,  Harry  boy,  she'll  sure  be  wor- 
shiping ye." 

Jim  Horton's  gaze,  fixed  as  though  fascinated  upon 
the  quiet  slate-blue  eyes,  saw  them  close  for  a  moment  in 
trouble,  while  a  quick  little  frown  puckered  the  white 
13 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

forehead.     And  when  she  spoke  again,  her  voice  uttered 
the  truth  that  was  in  her  heart. 

"One  cannot  deny  valor,"  she  said  coolly.  "It  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world." 

She  wanted  no  misunderstandings.  She  only  wanted 
Harry  Horton  to  know  that  love  was  not  for  her  or  for 
him.  The  fakir  under  the  bed  clothes  understood.  She 
preferred  to  speak  of  valor.  Valor !  If  she  only  knew ! 

Jim  Horton  gathered  courage.  If  he  wasn't  to  tell 
the  truth  he  would  have  to  play  his  part. 

"Everybody  is  brave — out  there,"  he  said,  with  a  ges- 
ture. 

"But  not  brave  enough  for  mention,"  said  Quinlevin 
genially.  "It  won't  do,  Harry  boy.  A  hero  ye  were  and 
a  hero  ye'll  remain." 

Horton  felt  the  girl's  calm  gaze  upon  his  face. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  made  good,  Harry.  I  am.  And 
I  want  you  to  believe  it." 

"Thanks,"  he  muttered. 

Why  did  she  gaze  at  him  so  steadily?  It  almost  seemed 
as  though  she  had  read  his  secret.  He  hoped  that  she 
had.  It  would  have  simplified  things  enormously.  But 
she  turned  away  with  a  smile. 

"You're  to  come  to  us,  of  course,  as  soon  as  they  let 
you  out,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Well,  rather,"  laughed  Quinlevin. 

The  nurse  had  approached  and  the  girl  Moira  had 
moved  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Barry  Quinlevin  paused  a 
moment,  putting  a  slip  of  paper  in  Horton's  hand. 

"Well,  au  revoir,  old  lad.    In  a  few  days  again " 

The  wounded  man's  gaze  followed  the  girl.  She  smiled 
back  once  at  him  and  then  followed  the  nurse  down  the 
ward.  Jim  Horton  sank  back  into  his  pillows  with  a  gasp. 

"Well — now  you've  done  it.  Now  you  have  gone  and 
done  it,"  he  muttered. 

14 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

IN  a  courageous  moment,  a  day  or  so  later,  the  pa- 
tient requested  Nurse  Newberry  to  try  to  get  what 
information  she  could  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  his 
cousin,  Corporal  James  Horton,  B  Company,  — th  En- 
gineers, and  waited  with  some  impatience  and  anxiety  the 
result  of  her  inquiries.  She  discovered  that  Corporal 
James  Horton  had  been  last  seen  in  the  fight  for  Bois- 
siere Wood,  but  was  now  reported  as  missing. 

Missing ! 

The  blank  expression  on  the  face  of  her  patient  was 
rather  pitiful. 

"It  probably  means  that  he's  a  prisoner.  He  may  be 
all  right.  H.  Q.  is  pretty  cold-blooded  with  its  informa- 
tion." 

But  the  patient  knew  that  Corporal  Horton  wasn't  a 
prisoner.  If  he  was  missing,  it  was  because  he  had  gone 
to  the  rear — nothing  less  than  a  deserter.  Nevertheless 
the  information,  even  indefinite  as  it  was,  brought  him 
comfort.  He  clung  rather  greedily  to  its  very  indefinite- 
ness.  In  the  eyes  of  the  army  or  of  the  world  "missing" 
meant  "dead"  or  "prisoner,"  and  until  Harry  revealed 
himself,  the  good  name  of  the  corporal  of  Engineers  was 
safe.  That  was  something. 

And  the  information  brought  the  wounded  man 
abruptly  to  the  point  of  realizing  that  he  was  now  defi- 
nitely committed  to  play  the  role  he  had  unwittingly 
chosen.  He  had  done  his  best  to  explain,  but  they  hadn't 
listened  to  him.  And  when  confronted  with  the  only  wit- 
15 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

nesses  whose  opinions  seemed  to  matter  (always  except- 
ing Harry  himself),  he  had  miserably  failed  in  carrying 
out  his  first  intentions.  He  tried  to  think  of  the  whole 
thing  as  a  joke,  but  he  found  himself  confronted  with 
possibilities  which  were  far  from  amusing. 

The  slate-blue  Irish  eyes  of  Harry's  war-bride  haunted 
him.  They  were  eyes  meant  to  be  tender  and  yet  were 
not.  Her  fine  lips  were  meant  for  the  full  throated  laughter 
of  happiness,  and  yet  had  only  wreathed  in  faint  uncer- 
tain smiles. 

Barry  Quinlevin  was  a  less  agreeable  figure  to  contem- 
plate. If  Jim  Horton  hadn't  read  his  letter  to  Harry 
he  would  have  found  it  easier  to  be  beguiled  by  the  man's 
genial  air  of  good  fellowship  and  sympathy,  but  he 
couldn't  forget  the  incautious  phrases  of  that  communi- 
cation, and  having  first  formed  an  unfavorable  impres- 
sion, found  no  desire  to  correct  it. 

To  his  surprise  it  was  Moira  who  came  the  following 
week  to  the  hospital  at  Neuilly  on  visitors'  day.  Jim 
Horton  had  decided  on  a  course  of  action,  but  when  she 
approached  his  bed,  all  redolent  with  the  joy  of  out  of 
doors,  he  quite  forgot  what  he  meant  to  say  to  her.  In 
Moira,  too,  he  seemed  to  feel  an  effort  to  do  her  duty  to 
him  with  a  good  grace,  which  almost  if  not  quite  effaced 
the  impression  of  her  earlier  visit.  She  took  his  thin 
hand  in  her  own  for  a  moment  while  she  examined  him 
with  a  kindly  interest,  which  he  repaid  with  a  fraternal 
smile. 

"Father  sent  me  in  his  place,"  she  said.  "I've  put. 
him  to  bed  with  a  cold." 

"I'm  so  glad —  -"  said  Horton,  and  then  stopped  with 
a  short  laugh.  "I  mean — I'm  glad  you're  here.  I'm  sorry 
he's  ill.  Nothing  serious?" 

"Oh,  no.  He's  a  bit  run  down,  that's  all.  And  you — 
you're  feeling  better?" 

16 


THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

He  liked  the  soft  way  she  slithered  over  the  last  syllable. 

"Oh,  yes — of  course." 

All  the  while  he  felt  her  level  gaze  upon  him,  cool  and 
intensely  serious. 

"You  are  out  of  danger  entirely,  they  tell  me.  I  see 
they've  taken  the  bandage  off." 

"Yesterday,"  he  said.     "I'm  coming  along  very  fast." 

"I'm  glad." 

"They  promise  before  long  that  I  can  get  out  into 
the  air  in  a  wheel-chair." 

"That  will  do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world." 

In  spite  of  himself,  he  knew  that  his  eyes  were  regard- 
ing her  too  intently,  noting  the  well  modeled  nose,  the 
short  upper  lip,  firm  red  mouth  and  resolute  chin,  all 
tempered  with  the  softness  of  youth  and  exquisite  femin- 
inity. He  saw  her  chin  lowered  slightly  as  her  gaze 
dropped  and  turned  aside  while  the  slightest  possible  com- 
pression of  her  lips  indicated  a  thought  in  which  he  could 
have  no  share. 

"I  have  brought  you  some  roses,"  she  said  quietly. 

"They  are  very  beautiful.  They  will  remind  me  of  you 
until  you  come  again." 

The  sudden  raising  of  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  over 
the  blossoms  was  something  of  a  revelation,  for  they 
smiled  at  him  with  splendid  directness. 

"You  are  improving,"  she  laughed,  "or  you've  a  Blar- 
ney Stone  under  the  pillow.  I  can't  remember  when 
you've  said  anything  so  nice  as  that  at  all." 

He  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"Perhaps  I  have  a  new  vision,"  he  said  at  last.  "The 
bullet  in  my  head  may  have  helped.  It  has  probably  af- 
fected my  optic  nerve." 

She  smiled  with  him. 

"You  really  do  seem  different,  somehow,"  she  broke  in. 
"I  can't  exactly  explain  it.  Perhaps  it's  the  pallor  that 

17 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

makes  the  eyes  look  dark  and  your  voice — it's  softer — 
entirely." 

"Really !"  he  muttered,   uncomfortably,   his   gaze 

on  the  gray  blanket.  "Well,  you  see,  I  suppose  it's  what 
I've  been  through.  My  eyes  would  seem  darker,  wouldn't 
they,  against  white,  and  then  my  voice — er — it  isn't 
very  strong  yet." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  she  replied. 

Her  eyes  daunted  him  from  his  purpose  a  little,  and  he 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  use  extreme  caution,  but  he 
had  resolved  whatever  came  to  see  the  game  through. 
After  all,  if  she  discovered  his  secret,  it  was  only  what  he 
had  tried  in  vain  to  tell  her. 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  he  went  on.  "When  a  fellow  comes 
as  near  death  as  I've  been,  it  makes  him  different.  I  seem 
to  think  in  a  new  way  about  a  lot  of  things — you,  for 
instance." 

"Me ?"     He  fancied  that  there  was  a  hard  note 

in  her  voice,  a  little  toss,  scarcely  perceptible,  of  the 
rounded  chin. 

"Yes.  You  see,  you  oughtn't  ever  to  have  married  me. 
You're  too  good  for  me.  I'm  just  a  plain  rotter  and 
you — oh,  what's  the  use?" 

He  paused,  hoping  that  she  would  speak.  She  did, 
after  a  silence  and  a  shrug. 

"Father  wanted  it.  It  was  one  way  of  paying  what  he 
owed  you.  I  don't  know  how  much  that  was,  but  I'm 
still  thinking  I  went  pretty  cheap."  She  halted  abruptly 
and  then  went  on  coolly,  "I  didn't  come  here  to  be  thinking 
unpleasant  thoughts — or  to  be  uttering  them.  So  long 
as  we  understand  each  other " 

"We  do,"  he  put  in  eagerly,  almost  appealingly.  "I 
want  you  to  believe  that  I  have  no  claim  upon  you — that 
my — my  relations  with  Barry  Quinlevin  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  you." 

18 


THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

"And  if  I  fell  in  love  with  another  man —  That  never 
seems  to  have  occurred  to  either  of  you " 

He  laughed  her  soberness  aside.  "As  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned, divorce  or  suicide.  I'll  leave  the  choice  to  you." 

He  gained  his  purpose,  which  was  to  bring  the  smile 
to  her  lips  again. 

"Your  wounds  have  inoculated  you  with  a  sense  of  hu- 
mor, at  any  rate,"  she  said,  fingering  the  roses.  "You've 
always  been  lacking  in  that,  you  know." 

"I  feel  that  I  can  laugh  at  them  now.  But  it  might 
have  been  better  for  you  if  I  hadn't  come  out  of  the 
ether." 

"No.  I  don't  like  your  saying  that.  I  haven't  the 
slightest  intention  of  falling  in  love  with  any  man  at  all. 

I  shan't  be  wanting  to  marry — really  marry '*  she 

added,  coloring  a  little.  "I've  begun  my  work.  It  needed 
Paris  again.  And  I'm  going  to  succeed.  You'll  see." 

"I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it.  You  were  made  for  success 
— and  for  happiness." 

"Sure  and  I  think  that  I  was — now  that  you  mention 
it,"  she  put  in  quaintly. 

"I  won't  bother  you.  You  can  be  certain  of  that,"  he 
finished  positively.  And  then  cautiously,  "Things  have 
not  gone  well — financially,  I  mean?" 

"No.  And  of  course  father's  worried  about  it.  Our 
income  from  Ireland  has  stopped  coming — somethings 
about  repairs,  he  says.  But  then,  I  suppose  we  will  get 
it  again  some  day.  Dad  never  did  tell  me  anything,  you 
know." 

Horton  thought  for  a  moment. 

"He  doesn't  want  to  worry  you,  of  course.  And  you 
oughtn't  to  be  worried.  Things  will  come  out  all  right." 

"I  intend  that  they  shall.  Father  always  gave  me  the 
best  when  he  had  it.  I'll  see  that  he  doesn't  suffer  now." 
19 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"But  that's  my  job,  Moira.  We'll  get  some  money  to- 
gether— someway — when  I  get  out." 

"Thanks.  But  I'm  hoping  to  do  a  lot  of  painting. 
I've  got  one  portrait  to  begin  on — and  it  doesn't  cost 
much  in  the  Quartier." 

Horton  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"I'll  get  money,"  he  said.     "Don't  you  worry." 

He  saw  her  eyes  studying  him  quietly  and  he  sank 
back  at  once  in  bed  out  of  the  glare  of  the  sunlight.  He 
wondered  if  he  had  gone  too  far.  But  he  had  found  out 
one  of  the  things  that  he  had  wanted  to  know.  She  knew 
nothing  of  what  Barry  Quinlevin  was  doing. 

Her  next  remark  was  disquieting. 

"It's  very  strange,  the  way  I'm  thinking  about  you. 
You've  grown  different  in  the  army — or  is  it  the  sick- 
ness? There's  a  sweeter  look  to  your  mouth,  and  a  firmer 
turn  to  your  jaw.  Your  gaze  is  wider  and  your  heart 
has  grown  soft,  with  the  suffering.  It's  like  another 
man,  I'm  seeing  somehow,  Harry,  and  I'm  glad." 

"Suffering — yes,  perhaps,"  he  muttered. 

She  leaned  forward  impulsively  and  put  her  hand  over 
his,  smiling  brightly  at  him. 

"We'll  be  good  friends  now,  alanah.     I'm  sure  of  it." 

"You  like  me  a  little  better ?" 

"Sure  and  I  wouldn't  be  sitting  here  holding  hands  if 
I  didn't,"  she  laughed.  Then  with  a  quick  glance  at  her 
wrist  watch  she  rose.  "And  now  I  must  be  going  back 
to  father.  Here  is  the  nurse.  Time  is  up." 

"You  will  come  soon  again?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"Yes — with  better  news,  I  hope.  Au  revoir,  mon 
brave." 

And  she  was  gone. 

The  visit  gave  him  more  food  for  thought.  But  he 
hadn't  learned  much.  What  he  did  know  now  was  that 
the  girl  Moira  trusted  Barry  Quinlevin  implicitly  and 
20 


THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

that  he  had  managed  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  as  to  the 
real  sources  of  his  livelihood.  The  Irish  rents  had  failed 
to  reach  them!  Were  there  any  Irish  rents?  And  if  so, 
what  had  "de  V"  to  do  with  them?  He  took 
Quinlevin's  letter  from  under  the  pillow  and  re-read  it 
carefully.  Nothing  about  Irish  rents  there.  Perhaps  other 
letters  had  followed,  that  Harry  had  destroyed.  lit 
any  case  he  would  have  to  play  the  game  carefully  with 
the  girl's  father  or  Quinlevin  would  find  him  out  before 
Horton  discovered  what  he  wanted  to  know.  The  quiet 
eyes  of  the  girl  Moira  disturbed  him.  Her  eyes,  her  in- 
tuitions, were  shrewd,  yet  he  had  succeeded  so  far.  If  he 
could  pass  muster  with  the  daughter,  why  shouldn't  he 
succeed  with  the  father?  The  weakness,  the  failing 
memory  of  a  sick  man,  could  be  trusted  to  bridge  diffi- 
culties. If  there  had  only  been  a  few  more  letters  he 
would  have  been  better  equipped  for  the  interview  with 
Barry  Quinlevin,  which  must  soon  follow.  He  inquired  of 
Miss  Newberry,  but  she  had  given  him  everything  that  had 
been  found  in  his  uniform.  He  scrutinized  the  notebook 
carefully,  which  contained  only  an  expense  account,  some 
addresses  in  Paris,  and  a  few  military  notes,  and  so  he 
discarded  it.  It  seemed  that  until  Quinlevin  came  to  the 
hospital  "de  V"  must  remain  one  of  the  unsolved  mys- 
teries of  his  versatile  brother. 

But  Moira's  innocence,  while  it  failed  to  enlighten  him 
as  to  the  mystery,  made  him  more  certain  that  her  love- 
less marriage  with  Harry  had  something  to  do  with  the 
suspected  intrigue.  Did  Harry  love  the  girl?  It  seemed 
scarcely  possible  that  any  man  who  was  half  a  man  could 
be  much  with  her  without  loving  her.  It  wasn't  like 
Harry  to  marry  any  girl  unless  he  had  something  to 
gain  by  it.  The  conversation  he  had  just  had  with  Moira 
showed  exactly  the  relationship  between  them,  if  he  ha4 
needed  any  further  evidence  than  her  letter. 
21 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

As  to  his  own  personal  relations  with  Moira,  he  found 
it  necessary  to  fortify  himself  against  a  more  than 
strictly  fraternal  interest  in  her  personality.  She  was 
extremely  agreeable  to  look  at  and  he  had  to  admit  that 
her  very  presence  had  cheered  up  his  particular  part  of 
the  hospital  ward  amazingly.  Her  quaintness,  her  quiet 
directness  and  her  modest  demeanor,  were  inherent  char- 
acteristics, but  they  could  not  disguise  the  overflowing 
vitality  and  humor  that  struggled  against  the  limitations 
she  had  imposed.  Her  roses,  which  Nurse  Newberry  had 
arranged  in  a  bowl  by  the  bedside,  were  unnecessary  re- 
minders of  the  giver.  Like  them,  she  was  fragrant,  pris- 
tine and  beautiful — altogether  a  much-to-be-desired  sis- 
ter-in-law. 

The  visit  or  Barry  Quinlevin  was  not  long  delayed  and 
Jim  Horton  received  him  in  his  wheel  chair  by  an  open 
window  in  the  convalescent  ward.  He  came  in  with  a 
white  silk  handkerchief  tied  about  his  neck,  but  barring 
a  husky  voice  showed  no  ill  effects  of  his  indisposition. 
He  was  an  amiable  looking  rogue,  and  if  the  shade  of 
Whistler  will  forgive  me,  resembled  much  that  illustrious 
person  in  all  the  physical  graces.  It  would  be  quite  easy 
to  imagine  that  Barry  Quinlevin  could  be  quite  as  dan- 
gerous an  enemy. 

"Well,  Harry  boy,  here  I  am,"  he  announced,  throw- 
ing open  his  coat  with  something  of  an  air,  and  loosening 
his  scarf.  "No  worse  than  the  devil  made  me.  And  ye're 
well  again,  they  tell  me,  or  so  near  it  that  ye're  no  longer 
interesting." 

"Stronger  every  day,"  replied  Horton  cautiously. 

"Then  we  can  have  a  talk,  maybe,  without  danger  of 
it  breaking  the  spring  in  yer  belfry?" 

"Ah,  yes, — but  I'm  a  bit  hazy  at  times,"  added  Horton. 

"Well,  when  the  fog  comes  down,  say  the  word  and  I'll 
be  going." 

22 


THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

"Don't  worry.    I  want  to  hear  the  news." 

Quinlevin  frowned  at  his  walking  stick.  "It's  little 
enough,  God  knows."  Then  glanced  toward  the  invalid 
at  the  next  window  and  lowered  his  voice  a  trifle. 

"The  spalpeen  says  not  a  word — or  he's  afflicted  with 
pen-paralysis,  for  I've  written  him  three  times — twice 
since  I  reached  Paris,  giving  him  the  address.  So  we'll 
have  to  make  a  move." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"Go  to  see  him — or  you  can.  At  first,  ye  see,  I  thought 
maybe  he'd  gone  away  or  died  or  something.  But  I 
watched  the  Hotel  de  Vautrin  in  the  Rue  de  Bac  until  I 
saw  him  with  my  own  eyes.  That's  how  I  took  this  bron- 
chitis— in  the  night  air  with  devil  a  drink  within  a  mile 
of  me.  I  saw  him,  I  tell  you,  as  hale  and  hearty  as 
ye  please,  and  debonair  like  a  new  laid  egg,  with  me, 
Barry  Quinlevin,  in  the  rain,  not  four  paces  from  the 
carriage  way." 

The  visitor  paused  as  though  for  a  comment,  and  Hor- 
ton  offered  it. 

"He  didn't  see  you?" 

"Devil  a  one  of  me.  For  the  moment  I  thought  of 
bracing  him  then  and  there.  But  I  didn't — though  I  was 
reduced  to  a  small  matter  of  a  hundred  francs  or  so." 

"Things  are  as  bad  as  that ?" 

Quinlevin  shrugged.  "I  bettered  myself  a  bit  the  next 
night  and  I'll  find  a  way " 

He  broke  off  with  a  shrug. 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  wasting  my  talents  on  the 
little  officer-boys  in  Guillaume's.  Besides,  'twould  be 
most  unpatriotic.  I'm  out  for  bigger  game,  me  son,  that 
spells  itself  in  seven  figures.  Nothing  less  than  a  coup 
d'etat  will  satisfy  the  ambitions  of  Barry  Quinlevin!" 

"Well?"  asked  Horton  shrewdly. 

"For  the  present  ye're  to  stay  where  ye  are,  till  yer 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

head  is  as  tight  as  a  drum,  giving  me  the  benefit  of  yer 
sage  advice.  We'll  worry  along.  The  rent  of  the  apart- 
ment and  studio  is  a  meager  two  hundred  francs  and  the 
food — well,  we  will  eat  enough.  And  Moira  has  some 
work  to  do.  But  we  can't  be  letting  the  Due  forget  I've 
ever  existed.  A  man  with  a  reputation  in  jeopardy  and 
twenty  millions  of  francs,  you'll  admit,  is  not  to  be  found 
growing  on  every  mulberry  bush." 

Horton  nodded.     It  was  blackmail  then.     The  Due  de 

Vautrin 

"You  wrote  that  you  had  a  plan,"  he  said.  "What  is 
it?" 

Barry  Quinlevin  waved  a  careless  hand. 
"Fair  means,  as  one  gentleman  uses  to  another,  if  he 
explains  his  negligence  and  remits  the  small  balance  due. 
Otherwise,  we'll  have  to  squeeze  him.  A  letter  from  a 
good  lawyer — if  it  wasn't  for  the  testimony  of  Nora 
Burke !" 

He  was  silent  in  a  moment  of  puzzled  retrospection  and 
bis  glittering  generalities  only  piqued  Jim  Horton's  curi- 
osity, so  that  his  eagerness  led  him  *_-.to  an  error  that 
nearly  undid  him. 

"Nora  Burke "  he  put  in  slowly. 

"I  wrote  ye  what  happened " 

"I  couldn't  have  received  the  letter " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  Quinlevin  was  staring  at 
him  in  astonishment. 

"Then  how  the  devil  could  ye  have  answered  it?" 
Horton  covered  the  awkward  moment  by   closing  his 
eyes  and  passing  his  fingers  across  his  brow. 
" Answered  it!     Funny  I  don't  remember." 
The  Irishman  regarded  him  a  moment  soberly,  and  then 
smiled  in  deprecation. 

"Of  course — ye've  slipped  a  cog " 

Then  suddenly  he  clapped  a  hand  on  Horton's  knee. 
24 


THE  MYSTERY  DEEPENS 

"Why,  man  alive, — Nora  Burke — the  Irish  nurse  who 
provides  the  necessary  testimony — Moira's  nurse,  d'ye 
mind,  when  she  was  a  baby,  who  saw  the  Due's  child  die 
— now  do  ye  remember ?" 

Horton  ran  his  fingers  over  his  hair  thoughtfully  and 
bent  his  head  again. 

"Nora  Burke — Moira's  nurse — who  saw  the  Due's 
child  die,"  he  repeated  parrot-like,  "and  the  Due — de 
Vautrin "  he  muttered  and  paused. 

"Thinks  his  child  by  this  early  marriage  is  still 
alive "  said  Quinlevin,  regarding  him  dubiously. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Horton  eagerly.  "It's  coming  back 
to  me  now.  And  de  Vautrin's  money " 

"He'll  pay  through  the  nose  to  keep  the  thing  quiet — 
unless " 

Barry  Quinlevin  paused. 

"Unless— what?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  in  which  the  visitor 
frowned  out  of  the  window. 

"I  don't  like  the  look  of  things,  I  tell  ye,  Harry. 
Ye're  in  no  fit  shape  to  help  'til  the  fog  clears  up,  but 
I've  a  mind  that  somebody's  slipped  a  finger  into  the  pie. 
Nora  Burke  wants  more  money — five  hundred  pounds — to 
tell  a  straight  story  and  where  I'm  going  to  get  it — the 
devil  himself  only  knows." 

"Nora  Burke — five  hundred  pounds !"  muttered  Hor- 
ton vaguely,  for  he  was  thinking  deeply,  "that's  a  lot  of 
money." 

"Ye're  right — when  ye  haven't  got  it.  And  de  Vau- 
trin's shutting  down  at  the  same  time.  It  looks  sus- 
picious, I  tell  ye." 

He  broke  off  and  fixed  his  iridescent  gaze  on  Horton. 
"Ye're  sure  ye  said  nothing  to  any  one  in  Paris  before 
ye  went  to  the  front?" 

Of  this  at  least  Jim  Horton  was  sure. 
25 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Nothing,"  he  replied. 

"Not  to  Piquette  Morin?" 

Here  was  dangerous  ground  again. 

"Nothing,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "nothing." 

"And  ye  wouldn't  be  remembering  it  if  ye  had,"  said 
Quinlevin  peevishly  as  he  rose.  "Oh,  well — I'll  have  to 
raise  this  money  some  way  or  go  to  Galway  to  put  the 
gag  on  Nora  Burke  until  we  play  the  trick — 

"I — I'm  sorry  I  can't  help "  said  Horton,  "but  you 

see — I'm  not " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  said  Quinlevin  more  affably.  "I 
shouldn't  be  bothering  ye  so  soon,  but  may  the  devil 
take  me  if  I  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"Will  you  see  de  Vautrin?" 

"Perhaps.  But  I  may  go  to  Ireland  first.  I've  got  to 
do  some  thinking — alone.  Good  bye.  Ye're  not  up  to 
the  mark.  Be  careful  when  Moira  comes,  or  ye  may  let 
the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  D'ye  hear?" 

"Don't  worry — I  won't,"  said  Horton  soberly. 

He  watched  the  tall  figure  of  Quinlevin  until  it  disap- 
peared into  the  outer  hall  and  then  turned  a  frowning 
gaze  out  of  the  window. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GOOSE 

JIM  HORTON  had  had  a  narrow  escape  from  dis- 
covery. But  in  spite  of  his  precarious  position  and 
the  pitfalls  that  seemed  to  lay  to  right  and  left, 
he  had  become,  if  anything,  more  determined  than  ever  to 
follow  the  fate  to  which  he  had  committed  himself.  There 
now  seemed  no  doubt  that  Moira  was  in  all  innocence  in- 
volved in  some  way  in  the  blackmailing  scheme  which  had 
been  the  main  source  of  livelihood  for  the  Quinlevin  family 
for  many  years.  And  Moira  did  not  know,  for  the  Due  de 
Vautrin,  of  course,  was  the  source  of  the  Irish  rents  to 
which  she  had  alluded.  And  now  he  was  refusing  to  pay. 

It  was  clear  that  something  unpleasant  hung  in  the 
air,  an  ill  wind  for  the  Due  de  Vautrin  and  for  the  plot- 
ters, Moira's  father  and  Jim  Horton's  precious  brother. 
And  it  seemed  quite  necessary  in  the  interests  of  honesty 
that  he,  Jim  Horton,  should  remain  for  the  present  in 
the  game  and  divert  if  possible  the  currents  of  evil  which 
encompassed  his  interesting  sister-in-law. 

One  thing  he  had  learned — that  by  taking  refuge  be- 
hind the  barriers  of  his  failing  memory,  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  keep  up  the  deception,  at  least  until  he  was  out 
of  the  hospital  and  a  crisis  of  some  sort  came  to  relieve 
him  of  his  responsibility.  Indeed  there  was  something 
most  agreeable  in  the  friendly  regard  of  his  brother's 
loveless  wife,  and  under  other  circumstances,  the  calls  of 
this  charming  person  would  have  been  the  source  of 
unalloyed  delight.  For  as  the  days  passed,  more  and  more 
she  threw  off  the  restraint  of  her  earlier  visits  and  they 
27 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

had  now  reached  a  relationship  of  understanding  and 
good-fellowship,  most  delightful  and  unusual  in  its  in- 
formality. 

Jim  Horton  was  progressing  rapidly  and  except  for 
occasional  lapses  of  memory,  easily  explained  and  per- 
fectly understood  by  his  visitors,  gained  health  and 
strength  until  it  was  no  longer  a  question  of  weeks  but 
of  days  when  he  should  be  able  to  leave  the  hospital  and 
accept  the  invitation  of  his  newly  discovered  relatives 
to  visit  the  studio  apartment.  He  had  made  further 
efforts  through  the  hospital  authorities  to  find  some  trace 
of  the  missing  man  but  without  success,  and  in  default 
of  any  definite  plan  of  action  chose  to  follow  the  line  of 
least  resistance  until  something  should  happen.  Barry 
Quinlevin  visited  him  twice,  but  spoke  little  of  the  affair 
of  the  Due  de  Vautrin  which  it  seemed  was  being  held 
in  abeyance  for  the  moment,  preferring  to  wait  until  the 
brain  and  body  of  the  injured  man  could  help  him  to 
plan  and  to  execute.  And  Jim  Horton,  finding  that 
safety  lay  in  silence  or  fatigue,  did  little  further  to  en- 
courage his  confidences. 

Thus  it  was  that  after  several  weeks  he  impatiently 
awaited  Moira  outside  the  hospital.  It  was  a  gorgeous 
afternoon  of  blue  and  gold  with  the  haze  of  Indian  Sum- 
mer hanging  lazily  over  the  peaceful  autumn  landscape. 
An  aromatic  odor  of  burning  leaves  was  in  the  air  and 
about  him  aged  men  and  women  worked  in  road  and 
garden  as  though  the  alarms  of  war  had  never  come  to 
their  ears.  The  signing  of  the  armistice,  which  had  taken 
place  while  Horton  was  still  in  his  bed,  had  been  the  cause 
of  much  quiet  joy  throughout  the  hospital.  But  with 
the  return  of  health,  Jim  Horton  had  begun  wondering 
what  effect  the  peace  was  to  have  upon  his  strange  for- 
tunes— and  upon  Harry's.  He  knew  that  for  the  present 
he  had  been  granted  a  furlough  which  he  was  to  spend 
28 


THE  GOOSE 


with  the  Quinlevins  in  Paris,  but  after  that,  what  was  to 
happen?  He  was  a  little  dubious  too  about  his  relations 
with  Moira.  .  .  .  But  when  he  saw  her  coming  down  the 
path  to  the  open  air  pavilion  with  Nurse  Newberry,  all 
flushed  with  the  prospect  of  carrying  him  off  in  triumph 
in  the  ancient  fiacre  from  which  she  had  descended,  he 
could  not  deny  a  thrill  of  pleasure  that  was  not  all  fra- 
ternal. 

"Behold,  mon  ami,"  she  cried  in  greeting,  "I've  come 
to  take  you  prisoner." 

He  laughed  gayly  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"And  there's  a  goose  in  the  pantry,  bought  at  a  fabu- 
lous price,  just  waiting  for  the  pan " 

"Be  sure  you  don't  kill  your  prisoner  with  kindness," 
put  in  Nurse  Newberry. 

"I'll  take  thaf  risk,"  said  Horton  genially. 

"Sure  and  he  must,"  put  in  Moira.  "It  isn't  every  day 
one  brings  a  conquering  hero  home." 

"Especially  when  he's  your  husband,"  said  the  artless 
Miss  Newberry  wistfully. 

Jim  Horton  had  a  glimpse  of  the  color  that  ran  like 
a  flame  up  Moira's  throat  to  her  brow  but  he  glanced 
quickly  away  and  busied  himself  with  a  buckle  at  his  belt* 

"I  want  to  thank  you,  Miss  Newberry,"  he  said  sober- 
ly, "for  all  that  you've  done  for  me.  I'll  never  forget." 

"Nor  I,  Lieutenant  Horton.  But  you're  in  better  hands 
than  mine  now.  A  week  or  so  and  you'll  be  as  strong  as 
ever." 

"I've  never  felt  better  in  my  life,"  he  replied. 

They  moved  toward  the  conveyance,  shook  hands  with 
the  nurse,  and  with  Harry's  baggage  (which  had  just  been 
sent  down  from  regimental  headquarters)  upon  the  box 
beside  the  rubicund  and  rotund  cocher,  they  drove  out 
of  the  gates  and  toward  the  long  finger  of  the  Eiffel  Tower 
29 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

which  seemed  to   be  beckoning  to  them   across   the  blue 
haze  above  the  roof  tops. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  moment.  In  the  ward,  in 
the  convalescent  rooms  or  even  in  the  grounds  of  the 
hospital,  Moira  had  been  a  visitor  with  a  mission  of  char- 
ity and  cheer.  Here  in  the  fiacre  the  basis  of  their  re- 
lationship seemed  suddenly  and  quite  mysteriously  to 
change.  Whether  Moira  felt  it  or  not  he  did  not  know, 
for  she  looked  out  of  her  window  at  the  passing  scene 
and  her  partly  averted  profile  revealed  nothing  of  her 
thoughts.  But  the  fact  that  they  were  for  the  first  time 
really  alone  and  driving  to  Moira's  Paris  apartment  gave 
him  a  qualm  of  guilt  on  account  of  the  impossible  situa- 
tion -that  he  had  created.  He  had,  he  thought,  shown 
her  deep  gratitude  and  respect — and  had  succeeded  in 
winning  the  friendship  that  Harry  had  perhaps  taken 
too  much  for  granted.  It  had  given  Jim  Horton  pleasure 
to  think  that  Moira  now  really  liked  him  for  himself 
alone,  and  the  whole-heartedness  of  her  good  fellowship 
had  given  him  every  token  of  her  spirit  of  conciliation. 
She  had  had  her  moods  of  reserve  before,  like  the  one  of 
her  present  silence,  but  the  abundance  of  her  vitality  and 
sense  of  humor  had  responded  unconsciously  to  his  own 
and  they  had  drawn  closer  with  the  artless  grace  of  two 
children  thrown  upon  their  own  resources.  And  now,  here 
in  the  ramshackle  vehicle,  for  the  first  time  alone,  Jim 
Horton  would  have  very  much  liked  to  take  her  by  the 
hand  (which  lay  most  temptingly  upon  the  seat  beside 
him)  and  tell  her  the  truth.  But  that  meant  Harry's 
disgrace — the  anguish  of  her  discovering  that  such  a 
friendship  as  this  with  her  own  husband  could  never  be; 
for  in  her  eyes  Jim  Horton  had  seen  her  own  courage 
and  a  contempt  for  all  things  that  Harry  was  or  could 
ever  hope  to  be.  And  so,  with  an  effort  he  folded  his 
arms  resolutely  and  stared  out  of  his  window. 
30 


THE  GOOSE 


It  was  then  that  her  voice  recalled  him. 

"Can't  you  smell  that  goose,  Harry  dear?"  she  said. 

He  flashed  a  quick  smile  at  her. 

"Just  can't  I !"  he  laughed. 

"And  you're  to  help  me  cook  it — and  vegetables  and 
coffee.  You  know" — she  finished,  "nothing  ever  tastes 
quite  so  good  as  when  you  cook  it  yourself." 

"And  you  do  all  the  cooking ?"  he  asked  thought- 
fully. 

"Sometimes — but  more  often  we  go  to  a  cafe.  Some- 
times Madame  Toupin  helps,  the  concierge — but  father 
thinks  my  cooking  is  the  best." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  I  shall  too."  And  then,  "where  is 
your  father  to-day?" 

She  looked  at  him,  eyes  wide  as  though  suddenly  re- 
minded. 

"I  forgot,"  she  gasped.  "He  asked  me  to  tell  you 
that  he  was  obliged  to  be  leaving  for  Ireland — about  the 
Irish  rents.  Isn't  it  tiresome?" 

"Oh,"  said  Horton  quietly.     "I  see." 

He  turned  his  thoughtful  gaze  out  of  the  carriage  win- 
dow into  the  Avenue  de  Neuilly.  The  situation  had  its 
charm,  but  he  had  counted  on  the  presence  of  Barry 
Quinlevin. 

"How  long  wiU  he  be  gone?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  "a  week  or  more  per- 
haps. But  I'll  try  to  make  you  comfortable.  I've  wanted 
so  to  have  everything  nice." 

He  smiled  at  her  warmth.  "You  forget  that — that  I've 
learned  to  be  a  soldier,  Moira.  A  blanket  on  the  floor  of 
the  studio  and  I'll  be  as  happy  as  a  king " 

"No.  You  shall  have  the  best  that  there  is — the  very 
best — mon  ami " 

"I  don't  propose  to  let  you  work  for  me,  Moira.  I 
31 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

can  get  some  money.    I  can  find  a  pension  somewhere  near 

She  turned  toward  him  suddenly,  her  eyes  very  close 
to  tears.  "Do  you  wish  to  make  me  unhappy — when  I've 
tried  so  hard  to — to " 

"Moira!"  He  caught  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed 
it  gently,  "I  didn't  mean " 

"I've  wanted  so  for  you  to  forget  how  unkind  I  had 
been  to  you — to  make  this  seem  like  a  real  homecoming 
after  all  you've  been  through.  And  now  to  hear  you 
talking  of  going  to  a  pension " 

"Moira — I  thought  it  might  be  inconvenient — that  it 
might  be  more  pleasant  for  you " 

He  broke  down  miserably.  She  released  her  fingers 
gently  and  turned  away.  "Sure  Alanah,  arid  I  think 
that  I  should  be  the  judge  of  that,"  she  said. 

"We'll  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  muttered.  "But  I — 
I'm  very  grateful." 

Moira's  lips  wreathed  into  an  adorable  smile. 

"I've  been  thinking  the  war  has  done  something  to  you, 
Harry.  And  now  I'm  sure  of  it.  You've  been  learning  to 
think  of  somebody  beside  yourself." 

"I'd  be  pretty  rotten  if  I  hadn't  learned  to  do  some 
thinking  about  you"  he  said,  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes 
with  more  hardihood  than  wisdom. 

She  met  his  gaze  for  the  fraction  of  a  minute  and  then 
raised  her  chin  and  laughed  merrily  up  at  the  broad 
back  of  the  cocher. 

"Yes,  you've  changed,  Harry  dear.  God  knows  how 
or  why — but  you've  changed.  You'll  be  paying  me  some 
compliments  upon  my  pulchritude  and  heavenly  virtues 
by  and  by." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  he  insisted  soberly  when  her 
laughter  subsided.  "Your  loveliness  is  only  the  outward 
and  visible  sign  of  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace.  I'm 
32 


THE  GOOSE 


so  sure  of  it  that  I  don't  care  whether  you  laugh  or  not." 

"Am  I  lovely?  You  think  so?  Well — it's  nice  to  hear 
even  if  it  only  makes  conversation.  Also  that  my  nose  is 
not  so  bad,  even  if  it  does  turn  piously  to  Heaven — but 
there's  a  deep  dent  in  my  chin  which  means  that  I've  got 
a  bit  of  the  devil  in  me — bad  cess  to  him — so  that  you'd 
better  do  just  what  I  want  you  to — or  we'll  have  a  falling 
out.  And  that  would  be  a  pity — because  of  the  goose." 

He  laughed  as  gayly  as  she  had  done. 

"I've  a  notion,  Moira,"  he  said,  "that  it's  my  goose 
you're  going  to  cook." 

"And  I've  a  notion,"  she  said  poising  a  slim  gloved 
finger  for  a  second  upon  his  knee,  "I've  a  notion  that 
we're  both  going  to  cook  him." 

It  seemed  too  much  like  a  prophecy  to  be  quite  to  his 
liking.  Her  moods  were  Protean  and  her  rapid  transi- 
tions bewildered.  And  yet,  under  them  all,  he  realized 
how  sane  she  was,  how  honest  with  him  and  with  herself 
and  how  free  from  any  guile.  She  trusted  him  entirely 
as  one  good  friend  would  trust  another  and  the  thought 
of  any  evil  coming  to  her  through  his  strange  venture  into 
Harry's  shoes  made  him  most  unhappy.  But  her  pretty 
dream  of  a  husband  with  whom  she  could  at  least  be  on 
terms  of  friendship  must  some  day  come  to  an  end  .  .  . 
And  yet  .  .  .  suppose  the  report  that  Harry  was  miss- 
ing meant  that  he  was  dead.  A  bit  of  shrapnel — a  bullet 
— he  didn't  wish  it — but  that  chance  was  within  the  range 
of  the  possible. 

They  had  passed  down  the  avenue  of  the  Grande  Armee, 
into  the  place  de  1'Etoile,  and  were  now  in  the  magnificent 
reaches  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  Jim  Horton  had  only 
been  in  Paris  for  five  hours  between  trains,  little  more 
than  long  enough  to  open  an  account  at  a  bank,  but 
Moira  chattered  on  gayly  with  the  point  of  view  of  an 
intime,  showing  him  the  places  which  they  must  visit  to- 
33 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

gether,  throwing  in  a  word  of  history  here,  an  incident  or 
adventure  there,  giving  the  places  they  passed,  the  per- 
sonality of  her  point  of  view,  highly  tinged  with  the 
artist's  idealism.  From  her  talk  he  gathered  that  she 
had  lived  much  in  Paris  during  all  her  student  days 
and  except  for  the  little  corner  in  Ireland  where  she  had 
been  born  and  which  she  had  visited  from  time  to  time, 
loved  it  better  than  any  place  in  the  world. 

"And  I  shall  teach  you  to  speak  French,  Harry — the 
real  argot  of  the  Quartier — and  you  shall  love  it  as  I 
do " 

"I  do  speak  it  a  little  already,"  he  ventured. 

"Really !     And  who  was  your  instructress  ?" 

The  dropping  intonation  was  sudden  and  very  direct. 

Jim  Horton  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  was  sure 
that  Harry  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"No  one,"  he  muttered,  "at  least  no  girl.  That's  the 
truth.  We  had  books  and  things." 

"Oh,"  she  finished  dryly. 

Her  attitude  in  this  matter  was  a  revelation.  The 
incident  seemed  to  clarify  their  relations  and  in  a  new 
way,  for  in  a  moment  she  was  conversing  again  in  a  man- 
ner most  unconcerned.  Friendly  she  might  be  with  Harry 
for  the  sake  of  the  things  that  he  had  accomplished,  com- 
panionable and  kind  for  the  sake  of  the  things  he  had 
suffered,  but  as  for  any  deeper  feeling — that  was  another 
matter.  Moira  was  no  fool. 

But  at  least  she  trusted  him  now.  She  dared  to  trust 
him.  Otherwise,  why  did  she  conduct  him  with  such  an 
air  of  unconcern  to  the  apartment  in  the  Rue  de 
Tavennes?  But  he  couldn't  be  unaware  of  the  alertness 
in  her  unconcern,  an  occasional  quick  and  furtive  side 
glance  which  showed  that,  however  friendly,  she  was  still 
on  her  guard.  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  study  this  newly 
discovered  Harry  at  closer  range.  But  why  had  she 
34 


THE  GOOSE 


chosen  the  venture?  He  had  given  her  her  chance.  Why 
had  she  refused  to  take  it? 

The  answers  to  these  questions  were  still  puzzling  him 
when  they  drove  up  the  hill  by  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel — 
Boul'  Miche',  she  called  it — reached  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 
dens and  then  turning  into  a  smaller  street  were  presently 
deposited  at  their  porte  cochere.  Her  air  of  gayety  was 
infectious  and  she  presented  him  to  the  good  Madame 
Toupin,  who  came  out  to  meet  them  with  the  air  of  one 
greeting  an  ambassador. 

"Welcome,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant.  Madame  Horton 
has  promised  us  this  visit  since  a  long  time." 

"Merci,  Madame.'* 

"Enter,  Monsieur — this  house  is  honored.  Thank  the 
bon  Dieu  for  the  Americans." 

Jim  Horton  bowed  and  followed  Moira  into  the  small 
court  and  up  the  stairway,  experiencing  a  new  sense  of 
guilt  at  having  his  name  coupled  so  familiarly  with 
Moira's.  Harry's  name  too — .  And  yet  the  circumstances 
of  the  marriage  were  so  strange,  the  facts  as  to  her  actual 
relations  with  her  husband  so  patent,  that  he  found  him- 
self resenting  Moira's  placid  acceptance  of  the  appella- 
tion. There  was  something  back  of  it  all  that  he  did  not 
know  ....  But  Moira  gave  him  no  time  to  think  of 
the  matter,  conducting  him  into  the  large  studio  and 
showing  him  through  the  bedroom  and  kitchen,  where  she 
proudly  exhibited  her  goose  (and  Jim  Horton's)  that  she 
was  to  cook.  And  after  he  had  deposited  his  luggage  in 
a  room  nearby  which  he  was  to  occupy,  she  removed  her 
gloves  in  a  business-like  manner,  took  off  her  hat  and 
coat,  and  invited  him  into  the  kitchen. 

"Allans,  Monsieur,"  she  said  gayly  in  French,  as  she 
rolled  up  her  sleeves. 

gWe  shall  now  cook  a  goose,  in  this  modern  apparatus 
so  kindly  furnished  by  the  Compagnie  de  Gaz.  There's  a 
35 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

large  knife  in  the  drawer.  You  will  now  help  me  to  cut 
up  the  potatoes — Julienne, —  and  the  carrots  which  we 
shall  stew.  Then  some  lettuce  and  a  beautiful  dessert 
from  the  patisserie — and  a  demi-tasse.  What  more  can 
the  soul  of  man  desire?'* 

"Rien,"  he  replied  with  a  triumphant  grin  of  under- 
standing from  behind  the  dish  pan.  "Absolument  rien." 

"Ah,  you  do  understand,"  she  cried  in  English.  "Was 
she  a  blonde — cendree?  Or  dark  with  sloe-eyes?  Or 
red-haired  ?  If  she  was  red-haired,  Harry,  I'll  be  scratch- 
ing her  eyes  out.  No?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"She  was  black  and  white  and  her  name  was  Ollendorff." 

"You'll  still  persist  in  that  deception?" 

"I  do." 

"You're  almost  too  proficient." 

"You  had  better  not  try  me  too  far." 

She  smiled  brightly  at  him  over  the  fowl  which  she  was 
getting  ready  for  the  pan,  stuffing  it  with  a  dressing 
already  prepared. 

"I  wonder  how  far  I  might  be  trying  you,  Harry  dear," 
she  said  mischievously. 

He  glanced  at  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  quietly  "but  I  think  I've  learned 
something  of  the  meaning  of  patience  in  the  army." 

"Then  God  be  praised!"  she  ejaculated  with  air  of 
piety,  putting  the  fowl  into  the  pan. 

"Here.  Cut.  Slice  to  your  heart's  content,  thin — 
like  jack-straws.  But  spare  your  fingers." 

She  sat  him  in  a  chair  and  saw  him  begin  while  she 
prepared  the  salad. 

"Patience  is  by  way  of  being  a  virtue,"  she  resumed 
quizzically,  her  pink  fingers  weaving  among  the  lettuce- 
leaves.  And  then,  "so  they  taught  you  that  in  the  Army?" 

"They  did." 

36 


THE  GOOSE 


"And  did  you  never  get  tired  of  being  patient,  Harry 
dear?" 

He  met  the  issue  squarely.  "You  may  try  me  as  far  as 
you  like,  Moira,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  owe  you  that." 

She  hadn't  bargained  for  such  a  counter. 

"Oh,"  she  muttered,  and  diligently  examined  a  doubtful 
lettuce  leaf  by  the  fading  light  of  the  small  window,  while 
Horton  sliced  scrupulously  at  his  potato.  And  when  the 
goose  was  safely  over  the  flame  she  quickly  disappeared 
into  the  studio. 

He  couldn't  make  her  out.  It  seemed  that  a  devil  was 
in  her,  a  mischievous,  beautiful,  tantalizing,  little  Irish 
she-devil,  bent  on  psychological  investigation.  Also  he 
had  never  before  seen  her  with  her  hat  off  and  he  dis- 
covered that  he  liked  her  hair.  It  had  bluish  tints  that 
precisely  matched  her  eyes.  He  finished  his  last  potato 
with  meticulous  diligence  and  then  quickly  rose  and  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  studio  where  a  transformation  had 
already  taken  place.  A  table  over  which  a  white  cloth 
had  been  thrown,  had  been  drawn  out  near  the  big  easel 
and  upon  it  were  plates,  glasses,  knives  and  forks  and 
candles  with  rose-colored  shades,  and  there  was  even  a 
bowl  of  flowers.  In  the  hearth  fagots  were  crackling 
and  warmed  the  cool  shadows  from  the  big  north  light, 
already  violet  with  the  falling  dusk. 

"Voila,  Monsieur — we  are  now  chez  nous.  Is  it  not 
pleasant  ?" 

It  was,  and  he  said  so. 

"You  like  my  studio?" 

"It's  great.     And  the  portrait — may  I  see?" 

"No — it  doesn't  go — on  sent  le  souffle — a  French 
dowager  who  braved  the  Fokkers  when  all  he/  family 
were  froiwsarcts — fled  in  terror.  She  deserves  immor- 
tality." 

"And  you — were  you  not  afraid  of  the  bombardments  ?" 
37 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Hardly — not  after  all  the  trouble  we  had  getting 
here — Horrors !"  she  broke  off  suddenly  and  catching  him 
by  the  hand  dashed  for  the  kitchen  whence  came  an 
appetizing  odor — "The  goose !  we've  forgotten  the  goose,'* 
she  cried,  and  proceeded  to  baste  it  skillfully.  She  com- 
mended his  potatoes  and  bade  him  stir  them  in  the  pan 
while  she  made  the  salad  dressing — much  oil,  a  little 
vinegar,  paprika,  salt  in  a  bowl  with  a  piece  of  ice  at  the 
end  of  a  fork. 

He  watched  her  curiously  with  the  eyes  of  inexperi- 
ence as  she  brought  all  the  various  operations  neatly  to 
a  focus. 

"AUons!  It  is  done,"  she  said  finally — in  French.  "Go 
thou  and  sit  at  the  table  and  I  will  serve." 

But  he  wouldn't  do  that  and  helped  her  to  dish  the 
dinner,  bringing  it  in  and  placing  it  on  the  table. 

And  at  last  they  were  seated  vis-a-vis,  Horton  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  the  glow  of  which  played  a  pretty  game 
of  hide  and  seek  with  the  shadows  of  her  face.  He  let  her 
carve  the  goose,  and  she  did  it  skillfully,  while  he  served 
the  vegetables.  They  ate  and  drank  to  each  other  in 
win  ordinaire  which  was  all  that  Moira  could  afford — 
after  the  prodigal  expenditure  for  the  piece  de  resistance. 
Moira,  her  face  a  little  flushed,  talked  gayly,  while  the 
spurious  husband  opposite  sat  watching  her  and  grinning 
comfortably.  He  couldn't  remember  when  he  had  been 
quite  so  happy  in  his  life,  or  quite  so  conscience-stricken. 
And  so  he  fell  silent  after  a  while,  every  impulse  urging 
confession  and  yet  not  daring  it. 

They  took  their  coffee  by  the  embers  of  the  fire.  The 
light  from  the  great  north  window  had  long  since  expired 
and  the  mellow  glow  of  the  candles  flickered  softly  on 
polished  surfaces. 

Suddenly  Moira  stopped  talking  and  realized  that  as 
she  did  so  silence  had  fallen.  Her  companion  had  sunk 


V 


MOIRA   TALKED   GATLT 


THE  GOOSE 


deep  into  his  chair,  his  gaze  on  the  gallery  above,  a  frown 
tangling  his  forehead.  She  glanced  at  him  quickly  and 
then  looked  away.  Something  was  required  of  him  and 
so, 

"Why  have  you  done  all  this  for  me?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  smiled  and  their  glances  met. 

"Because — because " 

"Because  you  thought  it  a  duty?" 

"No ,"  easily,  "it  wasn't  really  that.     Duty  is  such 

a  tiresome  word.  To  do  one's  duty  is  to  do  something 
one  does  not  want  to  do.  Don't  I  seem  to  be  having  a 
good  time?" 

"I  hope  you  are.  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  your  charity 
— your " 

"Charity !  I  don't  like  that  word." 

"It  is  charity,  Moira.    I  don't  deserve  it." 

The  words  were  casual  but  they  seemed  to  illumine  the 
path  ahead,  for  she  broke  out  impetuously. 

"I  didn't  think  you  did — I  pitied  you — over  there — for 
what  you  had  been  and  almost  if  not  quite  loathed  you, 
for  the  hold  you  seemed  to  have  on  father.  I  don't  know 
what  the  secret  was,  or  how  much  he  owed  you,  but  I 
know  that  he  was  miserable.  I  think  I  must  have  been 
hating  you  a  great  deal,  Harry  dear — and  yet  I  married 
you." 

"Why  did  you?"  he  muttered.  "I  had  no  right  to  ask 
— even  a  war  marriage." 

"God  knows,"  she  said  with  a  quick  gasp  as  she  bowed 
her  head,  "you  had  made  good  at  the  Camp.  I  think 
it  was  the  regimental  band  at  Yaphank  that  brought  me 
around.  And  then  you  seemed  so  pathetic  and  wishful, 
I  got  to  thinking  you  might  be  killed.  Father  wanted  it. 

And  so "  she  paused   and  sighed  deeply.     "Well — 

I  did  it  .  .  .  .It  was  the  most  that  I  could  give — 
for  Liberty.  ..." 

39 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  raised  her  head  proudly,  and  stared  into  the  glow- 
ing embers. 

"For  Liberty — you  gave  your  own  freedom "  he 

murmured. 

"It  was  mad — Quixotic "  she  broke  in  again,  "a 

horrible  sacrilege.  I  did  not  love,  could  not  honor,  had 
no  intention  of  obeying  you.  .  .  ."  She  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  He  thought  that 
she  was  in  tears  but  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  her,  though 
he  leaned  toward  her,  his  fingers  groping.  Presently  she 
took  her  hands  down  and  threw  them  out  in  a  wild  ges- 
ture. "It  is  merciless — what  I  am  saying  to  you — but 
you  let  loose  the  floodgates  and  I  had  to  speak." 

He  leaned  closer  and  laid  his  fingers  over  hers. 

"It  was  a  mistake "  he  said.    "I  would  do  anything 

to  repair  it." 

He  meant  what  he  said  and  the  deep  tones  of  his  voice 
vibrated  close  to  her  ear.  She  did  not  turn  to  look  at 
him  and  kept  her  gaze  on  the  fire,  but  she  breathed 
uneasily  and  then  closed  her  eyes  a  moment  as  though  in 
deep  thought. 

"Don't  you  believe  me,  Moira?" 

She  glanced  at  him  and  then  leaned  forward,  away — 
toward  the  fire. 

"I  believe  that  I  do,"  she  replied  slowly.  "I  don't 
know  why  it  is  that  I  should  be  thinking  so  differently 
about  you,  but  I  do.  You  see,  if  I  hadn't  trusted  you 
we'd  never  have  been  sitting  here  this  night." 

"I  gave  you  your  chance  to  be  alone " 

"Yes.  You  did  that.  But  I  couldn't  let  you  be  going 
to  a  pension,  Harry.  I  think  it  was  the  pity  for  your 
pale  face  against  the  pillows." 

"Nothing  else?"  he  asked  quietly. 

His  hand  had  taken  the  fingers  on  the  chair  arm  and 
she  did  not  withdraw  them  at  once. 
40 


THE  GOOSE 


"Sure  and  maybe  it  was  the  blarney." 

"I've  meant  what  I've  said,"  he  whispered  in  spite  of 
himself,  "you're  the  loveliest  girl  in  all  the  world." 

There  was  a  moment  of  -  silence  in  which  her  hand 
fluttered  uneasily  in  his,  while  a  gentle  color  came  into  her 
face. 

Then  abruptly  she  withdrew  her  fingers  and  sprang 
up,  her  face  aflame. 

"Go  along  with  you !  You'll  be  making  love  to  me  next." 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair,  silent,  perturbed,  as  he 
realized  that  this  was  just  what  was  in  his  heart. 

"Come,"  she  laughed,  "we've  got  all  the  dishes  to  wash. 
And  then  you're  to  be  getting  to  bed,  or  your  head  will 
be  aching  in  the  morning.  Allans !" 

She  brought  him  to  himself  with  the  clear,  cool  note 
of  camaraderie,  and  with  a  short  laugh  and  a  shrug  which 
hid  a  complexity  of  feeling,  he  followed  her  into  the 
kitchen  with  the  dishes.  But  a  restraint  had  fallen  between 
them.  Moira  worked  with  a  business-like  air,  rather  over- 
doing it.  And  Jim  Horton,  sure  that  he  was  a  black- 
guard of  sorts,  wiped  the  dishes  she  handed  to  him  and 
then  obediently  followed  her  to  the  room  off  the  hall 
where  his  baggage  had  been  carried. 

She  put  the  candle  on  the  table  and  gave  him  her 
frankest  smile. 

"Sleep  sound,  my  dear.  For  to-morrow  I'll  be  showing 
you  the  sights." 

"Good-night,  Moira,"  he  said  gently. 

"Dormez  bien." 

And  she  was  gone. 

He  stood  staring  at  the  closed  door,  aware  of  the 
sharp  click  of  the  latch  and  the  faint  firm  tap  of  her 
high  heels  diminishing  along  the  hall — then  the  closing 
of  the  studio  door.  For  a  long  while  he  stood  there,  not 
moving,  and  then  mechanically  took  out  a  cigarette,  tap- 
41 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

ping  it  against  the  back  of  his  hand.  Only  the  urge  of 
a  light  for  his  cigarette  from  the  candle  at  last  made 
him  turn  away.  Then  he  sank  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed 
and  smoked  for  awhile,  his  brows  furrowed  in  thought. 
Nothing  that  Harry  had  ever  done  seemed  more  despic- 
able than  the  part  that  he  had  chosen  to  play.  He  was 
winning  her  friendship,  her  esteem,  something  even  finer 
than  these,  perhaps — for  Harry — as  Harry,  borrowing 
from  their  tragic  marriage  the  right  to  this  strange 
intimacy.  If  her  dislike  of  him  had  only  continued,  if  she 
had  tolerated  him,  even,  or  if  she  had  been  other  than 
she  was,  his  path  would  have  been  smoother.  But  she  was 
making  it  very  difficult  for  him. 

He  paced  the  floor  again  for  awhile,  until  his  cigarette 
burnt  his  fingers,  then  he  walked  to  the  window,  opened 
it  and  looked  out.  It  was  early  yet — only  eleven  o'clock. 
The  thought  of  sleep  annoyed  him.  So  he  took  up  his 
cap,  blew  out  the  candle  and  went  quietly  out  into  the  hall 
and  down  the  stairs. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts  away  from 
the  associations  of  the  studio,  to  assume  his  true  guise 
as  an  alien  and  an  enemy  to  this  girl  who  had  learned  to 
trust  him.  The  cool  air  of  the  court-yard  seemed  to 
clear  his  thoughts.  In  all  honor — in  all  decency,  he  must 
discover  some  way  of  finding  his  brother  Harry,  expose 
the  ugly  intrigue  and  then  take  Harry's  place  and  go  out 
into  the  darkness  of  ignominy  and  disgrace.  That  would 
require  some  courage,  he  could  see,  more  than  it  had 
taken  to  go  out  against  the  Boche  machine  gunners  in  the 
darkness  of  Boissiere  Wood,  but  there  didn't  seem  to  be 
anything  else  to  do,  if  he  wanted  to  preserve  his  own 
self-respect  .... 

But  of  what  value  was  self-respect  to  a  man  publicly 
disgraced?  And  unless  he  could  devise  some  miracle  that 
would  enable  him  to  come  back  from  the  dead,  a  miracle 
42 


THE  GOOSE 


that  would  stand  the  test  of  a  rigid  army  investigation, 
the  penalty  of  his  action  was  death — or  at  the  least  a 
long  term  of  imprisonment  in  a  Federal  prison,  from 
which  he  would  emerge  a  broken  and  ruined  man  of  middle 
age.  This  alternative  was  not  cheering  and  yet  he  faced 
it  bravely.  He  would  have  to  find  Harry. 

#*-**# 

The  feat  was  not  difficult,  for  as  he  emerged  from  the 
gate  of  the  porte  cochere  of  the  concierge  and  turned 
thoughtfully  down  the  darkened  street  outside,  a  man  in 
a  battered  slouch  hat  and  civilian  clothes  approached 
from  the  angle  of  a  wall  and  faced  him. 

"What  the  H are  you  doing  at  No.  7  Rue  de 

Tavennes?"  said  a  voice  gruffly. 

Jim  Horton  started  back  at  the  sound,  now  aware  that 
Fortune  had  presented  him  with  his  alternative.  For 
the  man  in  the  slouch  hat  was  his  brother,  Harry  1 


CHAPTER  IV 
OUTCAST 

WHEN  Jim  Horton,  Corporal  of  Engineers,  took 
his  twin  brother's  uniform  and  moved  off  into 
the  darkness  toward  the  German  lines,  Harry 
Horton  remained  as  his  brother  had  left  him,  bewildered, 
angry,  and  still  very  much  afraid.  The  idea  of  tak- 
ing Jim  Horton's  place  with  his  squad  nearby  did  not 
appeal  to  him.  The  danger  of  discovery  was  too  ob- 
vious— and  soon  perhaps  the  squad  would  have  to 
advance  into  the  dreadful  curtain  of  black  that  would 
spout  fire  and  death.  He  was  fed  up  with  it.  The 
baptism  of  fire  in  the  afternoon  had  shaken  him  when  they 
lay  in  the  field.  It  was  the  grinning  head  of  Levinski 
of  the  fourth  squad  that  had  done  the  business.  He  had 
found  it  staring  at  him  in  the  wheat  as  the  platoon  crawled 
forward.  It  wasn't  so  much  that  it  was  an  isolated  head, 
as  that  it  was  the  isolated  head  of  Levinski,  for  he  hadn't 
liked  Levinski  and  he  knew  that  the  man  had  hated  him. 
And  now  Levinski  had  had  his  revenge.  Harry  had  been 
deathly  ill  at  the  stomach,  and  had  not  gone  forward 
with  the  platoon.  He  had  seen  the  whites  of  the  eyes  of 
his  men  as  they  had  glanced  aside  at  him — and  spat. 

Why  the  H he  had  ever  gone  into  the  thing  .   .  . 

And  now  .  .  .  suppose  Jim  didn't  come  back !  What 
should  he  do?  Why  had  the  Major  picked  him  out  for 
this  duty!  His  thoughts  vanfered  wildly  from  one 
fancied  injury  to  another.  And  Jim — it  was  like  him 
to  turn  up  and  plunge  into  this  wild  venture  that  would 
probably  bring  them  both  to  court-martial.  And  if  Jim 
44 


OUTCAST 


was  shot,  what  the  devil  was  he  to  do  ?  Go  on  through  the 
service  as  Jim  Horton,  Corporal  of  Engineers?  He 
cursed  silently  while  he  groveled  in  the  gully  waiting  for 
the  shots  that  were  to  decide  his  fate. 

For  a  moment  he  gathered  nerve  enough  to  pick  up 
Jim's  rifle  and  accoutrement  with  the  intention  of  joining 
the  squad  of  engineers.  But  just  at  that  moment  there 
were  sounds  of  shots  within  the  wood,  followed  by  others 
closer  at  hand,  and  then  bullets  ripped  viciously  through 
the  foliage  just  above  him.  By  a  movement  just  ahead  of 
him  he  knew  that  the  line  was  advancing.  He  couldn't 
.  .  .  his  knees  refused  him  .  .  .  so  he  crawled  into 
the  thicket  along  the  gully  and  lay  upon  the  ground 
among  the  fallen  leaves.  More  shots.  Cries  all  about 
him.  A  grunt  of  pain  after  a  shrapnel  burst  nearby  .  .  . 
the  rush  of  feet  as  the  second  wave  filtered  through 
.  .  .  then  the  rapid  crackle  of  the  engagement  in  the 
wood.  Jim  was  there — in  his  uniform.  He'd  be  taking 
long  chances  too.  He  had  always  been  a  fool.  .  .  . 

From  his  cover  he  marked  the  dawn  while  the  fighting 
raged — then  sunrise.  The  fire  seemed  to  slacken  and  then 
move  farther  away.  The  line  was  still  advancing  and  only 
the  wounded  were  coming  in — some  of  them  walking  cases, 
with  bandaged  heads  and  arms.  He  eyed  them  through 
the  bushes  furtively — vengefully.  Why  couldn't  lie  have 
gotten  a  wound  like  that — in  the  afternoon  in  the  wheat 
field — instead  of  finding  the  head  of  Levinski  and  the 
terror  that  it  had  brought?  Other  wounded  were  coming 
on  stretchers  now.  The  gully  near  him  made  an  easy 
path  to  the  plain  below  and  many  of  them  passed  near 
him  .  .  .  but  he  lay  very  still  beneath  the  leaves.  What 
if  Jim  came  back  on  a  stretcher  .  .  .  !  What  should 
he  do? 

Then  suddenly  as  though  in  answer  to  his  question  two 
men  emerged  from  the  hollow  above  and  approached, 
45 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

carrying  something  between  them.  There  was  a  man  of 
Harry's  own  platoon  and  a  sergeant  of  the  company. 
He  heard  their  voices  and  at  the  sound  of  them  he  cowered 
lower. 

"Some  say  he  showed  yellow  yesterday  in  the  wheat 
field,"  said  the  private. 

"Yellow !     They'd  better  not  let  me  hear  'em  sayin'  it 


They  were  talking  about  him — Harry  Horton.  And 
the  figure,  lying  awkwardly,  a  shapeless  mass ? 

At  the  risk  of  discovery,  the  coward  straightened  and 
peered  down  into  the  white  face  .  .  .  Jim ! 

Harry  Horton  didn't  remember  anything  very  dis- 
tinctly for  a  while  after  that,  for  his  thoughts  were  much 
confused.  But  out  of  the  chaos  emerged  the  persistent 
instinct  of  self  preservation.  There  was  no  use  trying 
to  find  Jim's  squad  now.  He  wouldn't  know  them  if  he 
saw  them.  And  how  could  he  explain  his  absence  with  no 
wound  to  show?  For  a  moment  the  desperate  expedient 
occurred  to  him  of  thrusting  himself  through  the  leg 
with  the  bayonet.  He  even  took  Jim's  weapon  out  of  its 
scabbard.  But  the  blue  steel  gave  him  a  touch  of  the 
nausea  that  had  come  over  him  in  the  wheat  field.  .  .  . 
That  wouldn't  do.  And  what  was  the  use?  They  had 
Harry  Horton  lying  near  death  on  the  stretcher.  What 
mattered  what  happened  to  the  brother?  There  was  ho 
chance  now  to  exchange  identities.  Perhaps  there  was 
never  to  be  a  chance. 

He  sank  down  again  into  the  thicket,  pulling  the  leaves 
about  him.  He  would  find  a  way.  It  could  be  managed. 
"Missing" — that  was  the  safest  way  out. 

That  night,  limping  slightly,  he  emerged  and  made  his 
way  to  the  rear.  It  was  ridiculously  easy.  Of  the  men 
he  met  he  asked  the  way  to  the  billets  of  the th  Regi- 
ment. But  he  didn't  go  where  they  told  him.  He  followed 
46 


OUTCAST 


their  instructions  until  out  of  sight  of  them,  and  then  went 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

He  managed  at  last  to  get  some  food  at  a  small  farm 
house  and  under  the  pretext  of  having  been  sent  to  borrow 
peasant  clothing  for  the  Intelligence  department,  managed 
to  get  a  pair  of  trousers,  shirt,  coat  and  hat.  He  had 
buried  his  rifle  the  night  before  and  now  when  the  oppor- 
tunity came  he  dropped  the  bundle  of  Jim  Horton's 
corporal's  uniform,  weighted  by  a  stone,  into  deep  water 
from  a  bridge  over  a  river.  With  the  splash  Corporal 
James  Horton  of  the  Engineers  had  ceased  to  exist. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  thanks  to  some  money  that 
he  had  found  in  Jim's  uniform — and  a  great  deal  of  good 
luck — he  was  safe  in  a  quiet  pastoral  country  far  from  the 
battle  line.  Here  he  saw  no  uniforms — only  old  men  and 
women  in  blouses  and  sabots,  occupying  themselves  with 
the  harvest,  aware  only  that  the  Boches  were  in  retreat 
and  that  their  own  fields  were  forever  safe  from  invasion. 
He  represented  himself  as  an  American  art  student  of 
Paris,  driven  by  poverty  from  the  city,  and  offered  to 
work  for  board  and  lodging.  They  took  him,  and  there 
he  stayed  for  awhile.  There  was  a  girl  in  the  family. 
It  was  very  pleasant.  The  nearest  town  was  St.  Florentin, 
and  Paris  was  a  hundred  miles  away.  But  after  a  few 
weeks  he  wearied  of  it,  and  of  the  girl,  and  having  twenty 
francs  left  in  his  pockets  stole  away  in  the  middle  of  the 
night. 

Paris  was  the  place  for  him.  There  identities  were  not 
questioned.  He  knew  something  of  Paris.  Piquette  Morin ! 
He  could  get  her  help  without  telling  any  unnecessary 
facts.  As  to  Barry  Quinlevin  and  Moira — that  was  dif- 
ferent. It  wouldn't  be  pleasant  to  fall  completely  in  the 
power  of  a  man  like  Barry  Quinlevin — even  if  he  was  now 
his  father-in-law.  And  Moira  .  .  .  No.  Moira  mustn't 
ever  know  if  he  could  prevent  it.  And  yet  if  Jim  Horton 
47 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

in  Harry's  uniform  had  been  killed  Harry  would  be 
officially  dead.  He  was  already  dead,  to  Moira,  if  Jim 
Horton  had  revived  enough  to  tell  the  truth.  It  wasn't 
a  pretty  story  to  be  spread  around.  But  if  Jim  were 
alive  .  .  .  what  then? 

There  were  ways  of  getting  along  in  Paris.  He  would 
find  a  way  even  if  ...  Moira  I  He  would  have  liked 
to  be  able  to  go  to  Moira.  She  was  the  one  creature  in 
the  world  whose  opinion  seemed  to  matter  now.  She  would 
have  been  his  on  the  next  furlough.  He  knew  women.  If 
you  couldn't  get  them  one  way  you  could  another.  Already 
her  letters  had  been  gentler — more  conciliatory.  His 
wife — the  wife  of  an  outcast!  God!  Why  had  he  ever 
gone  into  the  service?  How  had  he  known  back  there 
that  he  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  stand  up  under  fire — 
that  he  would  have  found  the  grinning  head  of  the  hated 
Levinski  in  the  wheat  field?  Waves  of  goose  flesh  went 
over  him  and  left  him  cold  and  weak.  ...  A  sullen 
mood  followed,  dull,  embittered,  and  vengeful,  against  all 
the  world,  with  only  one  hope  .  ,.  .  .  If  Jim  were 
alive — and  silent! 

That  opened  possibilities — to  substitute  with  his 
brother  and  come  back  to  his  own — with  all  the  honors  of 
the  fool  performance!  It  was  his  name,  his  job  that  Jim 
had  taken,  and  his  brother  couldn't  keep  him  out  of  them. 
He  could  make  Jim  give  them  up — he'd  make  him.  If  he 
couldn't  come  back  himself,  he  would  drag  Jim  down  with 
him — they  would  be  outcast  together.  In  the  dark  that 
night  he  would  have  managed  in  some  way  to  carry  out 
the  Major's  orders  if  Jim  hadn't  found  him  just  at  the 
worst  moment.  What  right  had  Jim  to  go  butting  in  and 
making  a  fool  of  them  both !  D — n  him ! 

He  found  his  way  into  Paris  at  the  end  of  a  dreary 
day  of  tramping.  He  had  a  few  francs  left  but  he  was 
tired  and  very  hungry.  With  a  lie  framed  he  went 
48 


OUTCAST 


straight  to  the  apartment  of  Piquette  Morin.  She  had 
gone  out  of  town  for  a  few  days. 

That  failure  baffled  him.  He  had  a  deposit  in  a  bank, 
but  he  dared  not  draw  it  out.  So  he  trudged  the  weary 
way  up  to  Montmartre,  saving  his  sous,  and  hired  a  bed 
into  which  he  dropped  more  dead  than  alive. 

Thus  it  was  that  two  nights  later,  unable  yet  to  bring 
himself  to  the  point  of  begging  from  passersby,  with  scant 
hope  indeed  of  success,  his  weary  feet  brought  him  at  last 
to  the  Rue  de  Tavennes.  Hiding  his  face  under  the 
shadow  of  his  hat  he  inquired  of  the  concierge  and  found 
that  the  apartment  of  Madame  Horton  was  au  troisieme. 
He  strolled  past  the  porte  cochere  and  walked  on,  looking 
hungrily  up  at  the  lighted  windows  of  the  studio.  Moira 
was  there — his  wife,  Barry  Quinlevin  perhaps.  Who  else? 
He  heard  sounds  of  laughter  from  somewhere  upstairs. 
Laughter !  The  bitterness  of  it !  But  it  dida't  sound 
like  Moira's  voice.  He  walked  to  and  fro  watching  the 
lighted  windows  and  the  entrance  of  the  concierge,  trying 
to  keep  up  the  circulation  of  his  blood,  for  the  night  was 
chill  and  his  clothing  thin.  He  had  no  plan — but  he  was 
very  hungry  and  his  resolution  to  remain  unknown  was 
weakening.  A  man  couldn't  let  himself  slowly  starve,  and 
yet  to  seek  out  any  one  he  knew  meant  discovery  and  the 
horrible  publicity  that  must  follw.  The  lights  of  the 
troisieme  etage  held  a  fascination  for  him,  like  that  of  a 
flame  for  a  moth.  He  saw  a  figure  come  to  a  window  and 
throw  open  the  sash.  He  stared,  unable  to  believe  his 
eyes.  It  was  a  man  in  the  uniform  of  an  officer  of  the 
United  States  Army — his  own  uniform  and  the  man  who 
wore  it  was  his  brother  Jim !  Alive — well,  covered  with 
honors  perhaps — here — in  Moira's  apartment?  What 
had  happened  to  bring  his  brother  here?  And  Moira  .  .  . 

His  head  whirled  with  weakness  and  he  stood  for  a 
moment  leaning  against  the  wall,  but  his  strength  came 
49 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

back  to  him  in  a  moment,  and  he  peered  up  at  the  window 
again.  The  light  had  gone  out.  Jim  masquerading  in 
his  shoes — with  Moira — as  her  husband — alone,  perhaps, 
in  the  apartment!  And  Moira?  The  words  of  concilia- 
tion in  her  last  letters  which  had  seemed  to  promise  so 
much  for  the  future,  had  a  different  significance  here. 
Fury  shook  him  like  a  leaf,  the  fury  of  desperation,  that 
for  the  moment  drove  from  his  craven  heart  all  fear  of 
an  encounter  with  his  brother. 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  door  shutting  and  in  a  moment 
he  saw  the  man  in  uniform  emerge  by  the  gate  of  the 
concierge.  He  walked  toward  the  outcast,  his  head  bent 
in  deep  meditation.  There  was  no  doubt  about  its  being 
Jim.  With  clenched  fists  Harry  barred  his  way,  the 
thought  that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  finding  utterance. 

Jim  Horton  stopped,  stepped  back  a  pace  and  then 
peered  at  the  man  in  civilian  clothing  from  beneath  his 
broad  army  hat-brim. 

"Harry !"  he  muttered,  almost  inaudibly. 

"What  are  you  doing  here — in  this  house?"  raged 
Harry  in  a  voice  thick  with  passion.  And  then,  as  no 
reply  came,  "Answer  me !  Answer  me !" 

One  of  Harry's  fists  threatened  but  his  brother  caught 
him  by  the  wrist  and  with  ridiculous  ease  twisted  his 
arm  aside.  He  was  surprised  as  Harry  sank  back  weakly 
against  the  wall  with  a  snarl  of  pain.  "D — n  you,"  he 
groaned. 

This  wouldn't  do.  Any  commotion  would  surely  arouse 
the  curiosity  of  Madame  Toupm,  the  concierge. 

"Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head,  Harry,"  he  muttered, 
"and  I'll  talk  to  you." 

He  caught  him  firmly  by  the  arm,  but  Harry  still  leaned 
against  the  wall,  muttering  vaguely. 

"A  civil  tongue — me !    You — you  dare  ask  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  gently,  "I've  been  trying  to  find  you." 
50 


OUTCAST 


"Where?"  leered  Harry,  "in  my  wife's  studio?" 

Jim  Horton  turned  suddenly  furious,  but  shocked  into 
silence  and  inertia  by  the  terrible  significance  of  the  sus- 
picion. But  he  pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort. 

"Come,"  he  said  quietly.     "Let's  get  away  from  here." 

He  felt  Harry  yield  to  the  pressure  of  his  fingers  and 
slowly  they  moved  into  the  shadows  down  the  street  away 
from  the  gas  lamps.  A  moment  later  Harry  was  twitch- 
ing at  his  arm. 

"G-get  me  something  to  eat.  I — I'm  hungry,"  he 
gasped. 

"Hungry !     How  long ?" 

"Since  yesterday  morning — a  crust  of  bread " 

And  Jim  had  been  eating  goose !  The  new  sense 

of  his  own  guilt  appalled  him. 

"Since  yesterday !"  he  muttered  in  a  quick  gush  of 

compassion.  "We'll  find  something — a  cafe " 

"There's  a  place  in  the  Rue  Berthe — Javet's,"  he  said 
weakly. 

Jim  Horton  caught  his  brother  under  an  elbow  and 
helped  him  down  the  street,  aware  for  the  first  time  of  the 
cause  of  his  weakness.  He  marked,  too,  the  haggard 
lines  in  Harry's  face,  and  the  two  weeks'  growth  of  beard 
that  effectually  concealed  all  evidence  of  respectability. 
There  seemed  little  danger  of  any  one's  discovering  the 
likeness  between  the  neatly  garbed  lieutenant  and  the 
civilian  who  accompanied  him.  But  it  was  well  to  be 
careful.  They  passed  a  brilliantly  lighted  restaurant,  but 
in  a  nearby  street  after  awhile  they  came  to  a  small 
cafe,  not  too  brightly  lighted,  and  they  entered.  There 
was  a  polished  zinc  bar  which  ran  the  length  of  a  room 
with  low,  smoke-stained  ceilings.  At  the  bar  were  two 
cochers,  in  shirt  sleeves,  their  yellow-glazed  hats  on  the 
backs  of  their  heads,  sipping  grenadine.  There  was  a 
winding  stair  which  led  to  the  living  quarters  above,  but 
51 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

through  a  doorway  beside  ic,  there  was  a  glimpse  of  an 
inner  room  with  tables  unoccupied.  They  entered  and 
Jim  Horton  ordered  a  substantial  meal  which  was  pres- 
ently set  before  the  hungry  man.  The  coffee  revived  him 
and  he  ate  greedily  in  moody  silence  while  Jim  Horton 
sat,  frowning  at  the  opposite  wall.  For  the  present  each 
was  deeply  engrossed — Jim  in  the  definite  problem  that 
had  suddenly  presented  itself,  and  the  possible  courses  of 
action  open  to  do  what  was  to  be  required  of  him ;  Harry 
in  his  food,  beyond  which  life  at  present  held  no  other 
interest.  But  after  a  while,  which  seemed  interminable  to 
Jim,  his  brother  gave  a  gasp  of  satisfaction,  and  pushed 
back  his  dishes. 

"Give  me  a  cigarette,"  he  demanded  with  something  of 
an  air. 

Jim  obeyed  and  even  furnished  a  light,  not  missing  the 
evidences  of  Dutch  courage  Harry  had  acquired  from 
the  stimulation  of  food  and  coffee. 

It  was  curious  what  little  difference  the  amenities 
seemed  to  matter.  They  were  purely  mechanical — nor 
would  it  matter  what  Harry  was  to  say  to  him.  The  main 
thing  was  to  try  to  think  clearly,  obliterating  his  own 
animus  against  his  brother  and  the  contempt  in  which  he 
held  him. 

Harry  sank  back  into  his  chair  for  a  moment,  inhaling 
luxuriously. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "maybe  you've  got  a  word  to 
say  about  how  the  devil  you  got  here." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  quickly.  "It's  very  simple.  I  was  hit. 
I  took  your  identity  in  the  hospital.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing else  to  do." 

Harry  glowered  at  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  and  then 
shrugged  heavily. 

"I  see.  They  think  you're  me.  That  was  nice  of  you, 
52 


OUTCAST 


Jim,"  he  sneered,  "very  decent  indeed,  very  kind  and 
brotherly " 

"You'd  better  'can'  the  irony,"  Jim  broke  in  briefly. 
"Thev'd  have  found  us  out — both  of  us.  And  I  reckon 
you  know  what  that  would  have  meant." 

"H — m.  Maybe  I  do,  maybe  I  don't,"  he  said  shrewdly. 
"It  was  you  who  found  me — er — sick.  Nobody  else  did." 

"We  needn't  speak  of  that." 

"We  might  as  well.  I'd  have  come  a  ~ound  all  right, 
if  you  hadn't  butted  in."  « 

"Oh,  would  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Harry  sullenly. 

Jim  Horton  carefully  lighted  a  cigarette  from  the  butt 
of  the  other,  and  then  said  coolly: 

"We're  not  getting  anywhere,  Harry." 

"I  think  we  are.  I'm  trying  to  show  you  that  you're 
in  wrong  on  this  thing  from  start  to  finish.  And  it  looks 
as  though  you  might  get  just  what  was  coming  to  you." 

"Meaning  what?" 

"That  you'll  take  my  place  again.  This !"  exhibit- 
ing with  a  grin  his  worn  garments.  "You  took  mine  with- 
out a  by-your-leave.  Now  you'll  give  it  back  to  me." 

An  ugly  look  came  into  Jim  Horton's  jaw. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  he  said  in  a  tone  danger- 
ously quiet. 

"What !    You  mean  that "    The  bluster  trailed  off 

into  silence  at  the  warning  fire  in  his  brother's  eyes.  But 
he  raised  his  head  in  a  moment,  laughing  disagreeably. 
"I  see.  The  promotion  has  got  i~>to  your  head.  Some 
promotion — Lieutenant  right  off  the  reel — from  Corporal, 

too.  Living  soft  in  the  hospital  and  now "   He  paused 

and  swallowed  uneasily.  "How  did  you  get  to  the  Rue 
de  Tavennes?" 

"They  came  to  the  hospital — Mr.  Quinlevin  and — and 
your  wife.    I — I  fooled  them.    They  don't  suspect." 
53 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"How — how  did  you  know  Moira  was  my  wife?" 

"Some  letters.     I  read  them." 

"Oh,  I  see.  You  read  them,"  he  frowned  and  then, 
"Barry  Quinlevin's  too?" 

"Yes — his  too.  I  had  to  have  facts.  I  got  them — 
some  I  wasn't  looking  for " 

"About ?" 

"About  the  Due  de  Vautrin,"  Jim  broke  in  dryly. 
"That's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I'm  still  Harry  Horton 
and  why  Fm  going  to  stay  Harry  Horton — for  the 
present." 

If  Jim  had  needed  any  assurance  as  to  his  brother's 
share  in  this  intrigue  he  had  it  now.  For  Harry  went 
red  and  then  pale,  refusing  to  meet  his  gaze. 

"I  see,"  he  muttered,  "Quinlevin's  been  talking." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  craftily,  "he  has.  It's  a  pretty  plan, 
but  it  won't  come  off.  You  always  were  a  rotter,  Harry. 
But  you're  not  going  to  hurt  Moira,  if  I  can  prevent." 

It  was  a  half-random  shot  but  it  hit  the  mark. 

"Moira,"  muttered  Harry  somberly.  "I  see.  You 
haven't  been  wasting  any  time." 

"I'm  not  wasting  time  when  I  can  keep  her — or  even 
you — from  getting  mixed  up  in  dirty  blackmail.  That's 
my  answer.  And  that's  why  I'm  not  going  to  quit  until 
I'm  ready." 

Harry  Horton  frowned  at  the  soiled  table  cover,  his 
fingers  twitching  at  his  fork,  and  then  reached  for  the 
coffee  pot  and  quickly  poured  himself  another  cup. 

"Clever,  Jim,"  he  said  with  a  cynical  laugh.  "I  take 
off  my  hat  to  you.  I  never  would  have  thought  you  had 
it  in  you.  But  you'll  admit  that  living  in  my  wife's 
apartment  and  impersonating  her  husband  is  going  a 
bit  too  far." 

The  laughter  didn't  serve  to  conceal  either  his  fear 
54 


OUTCAST 


or  his  fury.  But  it  stopped  short  as  Jim's  fingers  sud- 
denly closed  over  his  wrist  and  held  it  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"Don't  bring  her  into  this,"  he  whispered  tensely.  "Do 
you  hear?"  And  after  a  moment  of  struggle  with  himself 
as  he  withdrew  his  hand,  "You  dared  to  think  yourself 
worthy  of  her.  Your 

"Be  careful  what  you  say  to  me,"  said  Harry,  trying 
bravado.  "She's  my  wife." 

"She  won't  be  your  wife  long,  when  I  tell  her  what  I 
know  about  you,"  finished  Jim  angrily. 

He  saw  Harry's  face  go  pale  again  as  he  tried  to  meet 
his  gaze,  saw  the  fire  flicker  out  of  him,  as  he  groped 
pitiably  for  Jim's  hand. 

"Jim!    You — you  wouldn't  do  that?"  he  muttered. 

Jim  released  his  hand,  shrugged  and  leaned  back  in  his 
chair. 

"Not  if  you  play  straight  with  me — and  with  her.  You 
want  me  to  pay  the  penalty  of  what  I  did  for  you — to 
go  out  into  the  world — an  outcast  in  your  place.  Per- 
haps I  owe  it  to  you.  I  don't  know.  But  you  owe  me 
something  too — promotion — the  Croix  de  Guerre " 

"The  Croix  de  Guerre!    Me ?" 

"Lieutenant  Harry  G.  Horton  to  be  gazetted  captain 
— me !"  put  in  Jim,  with  some  pride.  "Not  you." 

A  brief  silence  in  which  Harry  rubbed  his  scrawny 
beard  with  his  long  fingers. 

"That  might  be  difficult  to  prove  to  my  Company  cap- 
tain," he  said  at  last. 

"You  forget  my  wounds,"  laughed  Jim.  "Oh,  they're 
my  wounds  all  right."  And  then,  with  a  shrug,  "You 
see,  Harry,  it  won't  work.  You're  helpless.  If  I  chose 
to  keep  on  the  job,  you'd  be  left  out  in  the  cold." 

"You  won't  dare " 

"I  don't  know  what  I'd  dare.     It  depends  on  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  broke  in  Harry  with  some  spirit. 
55 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"I  couldn't  be  any  worse  off  than  I  am  now,  even  if  I  told 
the  truth." 

Jim  laughed.  "/  tried  to  tell  in  the  hospital  and  they 
thought  I  was  bug-house.  Try  it  if  you  like.'* 

Harry  frowned  and  reached  for  another  cigarette. 

And  then  after  awhile,  "Well — what  do  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

His  brother  examined  him  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
then  went  on. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you've  learned  anything  in  the 
army  or  not.  But  it  ought  to  have  taught  you  that 
you've  got  to  live  straight  with  your  buddy  or  you  can't 
get  on." 

"Straight!"  sneered  Harry,  "like  you.  You  call  this 
straight — what  you're  doing?" 

"No,"  Jim  admitted.  "It's  not  straight.  It's  crooked 
as  hell,  but  if  it  wasn't,  you'd  have  been  drummed  out 
of  the  Service  by  now.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  care 
about  you.  I  didn't — out  there.  It  was  only  the  honor  of 
the  service  I  was  thinking  about.  I'd  do  it  again  if  I  had 
to.  But  I  do  care  about  this  girl  you've  bamboozled  into 
marrying  you — you  and  Quinlevin.  And  whatever  the 
dirty  arrangement  between  you  that  made  it  possible,  I 
want  to  make  it  clear  to  you  here  and  now  that  she  isn't 
going  to  be  mixed  up  in  any  of  your  rotten  deals.  She 
isn't  your  sort  and  you  couldn't  drag  her  down  to  your 
level  if  you  tried.  I'll  know  more  when  Quinlevin  gets  back 
and  then " 

Jim  Horton  paused  as  he  realized  that  he  had  said 
too  much,  for  he  saw  his  brother  start  and  then  stare 
at  him. 

"Ah,  Barry  Quinlevin — is  away !" 

Jim  nodded.     "Yes,"  he  said,  "in  Ireland." 

Harry  had  risen,  glowering. 

"And  you  think  I'm  going  to  slink  off  to-night  to  my 
56 


OUTCAST 


kennel  and  let  you  go  back  to  the  studio.  You  in  my 
uniform — as  me — to  Moira." 

Jim  Horton  thought  deeply  for  a  moment  and  then  rose 
and  coolly  straightened  his  military  blouse. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "we'll  go  back  to  her  together." 

He  took  out  some  money  and  carelessly  walked  toward 
the  bar  in  the  front  room.  But  Harry  followed  quickly 
and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Jim,"  he  muttered,  "you  won't  do  that!" 

"We'll  teU  her  the  truth— I  guess  you're  right.  She 
ought  to  know." 

"Wait  a  minute " 

His  hand  was  trembling  on  the  officer's  sleeve  and  the 
dark  beard  seemed  to  make  the  face  look  ghastly  under 
its  tan. 

"Not  yet,  Jim.  Not  to-night.  We — we'll  have  to  let 
things  be  for  awhile.  Just  sit  down  again  for  a  minute. 
We've  got  to  find  a  way  to  straighten  this  thing  out — to 
get  you  back  into  your  old  job " 

"How?"  dryly. 

"I — I  don't  know  just  now,  but  we  can  work  it  some- 
how  " 

"It's  too  late " 

"You  could  have  been  captured  by  the  Boches,  We 
can  find  a  way,  when  you  let  me  have  my  uniform." 

Jim  Horton  grinned  unsympathetically. 

"There  are  two  wounds  in  that  too,  Harry,"  he  said. 
"Where  are  yours?" 

And  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Listen,  Jim.  We'll  let  things  be  as  they  are  for  the 
present.  Barry  Quinlevin  mustn't  know — you've  got  to 
play  the  part.  I  see.  Come  and  sit  down  a  minute." 

His  brother  obeyed  mechanically. 

"Well,"  he  said. 

"I'll  do  what  you  say — until — until  we  can  think  of 
57 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

something."  He  tried  a  smile  and  failed.  "I  know  it's  a 
good  deal  to  ask  you — to  take  my  place — to  go  out  inta 
the  world  and  be  what  I  am,  but  you  won't  have  to  do  it. 
You  won't  have  to.  We'll  manage  something — some  way. 

You  go  back  to  the  studio "  he  paused  uncertainly, 

"You're  not ?"  he  paused. 

Jim  Horton  read  his  meaning.; 

"Making  love  to  your  wife?  And  if  I  was,  it  would 
only  be  what  you  deserve.  She  doesn't  love  you  any  too 
much,  as  it  is." 

Harry  frowned  at  the  floor,  and  was  silent,  but  his 
brother's  answer  satisfied  him. 

"All  right.  You  go  back — but  I've  got  to  get  some 
money.  I  can't  starve." 

"I  don't  want  you  to,"  Jim  fumbled  in  his  pockets  and 
brought  out  some  bills.  "Here — take  these.  They're 
yours  anyway.  We'll  arrange  for  more  later.  I've  an 
account  at  a  bank  here " 

"And  so  have  I — but  I  don't  dare " 

"Very  good.    What's  your  bank?" 

"Hartjes  $  Cie." 

"All  right.  I'll  get  some  checks  to-morrow  and  you. 
can  make  one  payable  to  yourself.  I'll  cash  it  and  give 
you  the  money.  And  I'll  make  one  out  at  my  bank  for 
the  same  amount,  dated  back  into  October,  before  the 
Boissiere  fight,  payable  to  bearer.  You  can  get  it  cashed?" 

"Yes." 

"Who?" 

"A  woman  I  know." 

Jim  shrugged.  "All  right.  But  be  careful.  I'll  meet 
you  here  to-morrow  night.  And  don't  shave." 

Harry  nodded  and  put  the  bills  into  his  pocket  while 
Jim  rose  again. 

"You  play  the  game  straight  with  me,"  he  said,  "and 

I'll  put  this  thing  right,  even  if " 

58 


OUTCAST 


He  paused  suddenly  in  the  doorway,  his  sentence 
unfinished,  for  just  in  front  of  him  stood  a  very  hand- 
some girl,  who  had  abandoned  her  companion  and  stood, 
both  hands  outstretched,  in  greeting. 

"  'Arry  'Orton,"  she  was  saying  joyously  in  broken 
English.  "You  don  seem  to  know  me.  It  is  I — Piquette." 

The  name  Quinlevin  had  spoke  in  the  hospital! 

Jim  glanced  over  his  shoulder  into  the  shadow  where 
Harry  had  been,  but  his  brother  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  V 

PIQUETTE 

SHE  wore  a  black  velvet  toque  which  bore  upon  its 
front  two  large  crimson  wings,  poised  for  flight,  and 
they  seemed  to  typify  the  girl  herself — alert,  on 
tip-toe,  a  bird  of  passage.  She  had  a  nose  very  slightly 
retrousse,  black  eyes,  rather  small  but  expressive,  with 
brows  and  lids  skillfully  tinted;  her  figure  was  graceful, 
svelte,  and  extraordinarily  well  groomed,  from  her  white 
gloves  to  the  tips  of  her  slender  shiny  boots,  and  seemed 
out  of  place  in  the  shadows  of  these  murky  surroundings. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  mischievous,  tingling  with  vitality 
and  joyous  at  this  unexpected  meeting. 

Horton  glanced  past  her  and  saw  a  figure  in  a  slouch 
hat  go  out  of  the  door,  then  from  the  darkness  turn  and 
beckon.  But  Jim  Horton  was  given  no  opportunity  to 
escape  and  Harry's  warning  gesture,  if  anything,  served 
to  increase  his  curiosity  as  to  this  lovely  apparition. 

"Monsieur  Valcourt — Monsieur  'Orton,"  she  said,  indi- 
cating her  companion  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  And  then, 
as  he  shook  hands  with  her  companion,  a  handsome  man 
with  a  well-trimmed  grayish  mustache,  "Monsieur  Val- 
court is  one  day  de  greatest  sculptor  in  de  world — Mon- 
sieur 'Orton  is  de  'ero  of  Boissiere  wood.'* 

"You  know  of  the  fight  in  Boissiere ?"  put  in 

Jim. 

"And  who  does  not?  It  is  all  in  le  Matin  to-day — an* 
'ere  I  find  you  trying  to  'ide  yourself  in  the  obscure  cafe 
of  Monsieur  Javet." 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  before  he  realized  what  she 
60 


PIQUETTE 


was  about  had  thrown  her  arms  over  his  shoulders  and 
kissed  him  squarely  upon  the  lips.  He  felt  a  good  deal  of 
a  fool  with  Monsieur  Valcourt  and  the  villainous-looking 
Javet  grinning  at  them,  but  the  experience  was  not 
unpleasant  and  he  returned  her  greeting  whole  heartedly, 
wondering  what  was  to  come  next. 

And  when  laughing  gayly  she  released  him,  he  turned 
toward  Monsieur  Valcourt,  who  was  regarding  her  with 
a  dubious  smile.  3 

"For  all  her  prosperity,  Monsieur  'Orton,"  Valcourt 
was  saying,  in  French,  "she  is  still  a  gamine." 

"And  who  would  wonder,  man  vieux!  To  live  expen- 
sively is  very  comfortable,  but  even  comfort  is  tedious. 
Does  not  one  wish  to  laugh  with  a  full  throat,  to  kick 
one's  toes  or  to  put  one's  heels  upon  a  table?  La  la!  I 
do  not  intend  to  grow  too  respectable,  I  assure  you." 

Jim  Horton  laughed.  She  had  spoken  partly  in  Eng- 
lish, partly  in  French,  translating  for  both,  and  then, 

"Let  me  assure  you,  Madame,"  said  Valcourt  with  a 
stately  bow,  "that  you  are  not  in  the  slightest  danger  of 
that." 

But  she  was  already  turning  to  Horton  again. 

"A  'ero.  The  world  is  full  of  'eros  to-day,  but  not 
one  like  my  'Arry  'Orton.  Allans!  I  mus'  'ave  a  talk 
with  you  alone.  Lucien,"  she  said  sharply,  turning  to 
Valcourt,  "I  will  come  to  de  studio  to-morrow.  Monsieur 
le  Due  t'inks  I  am  gone  away,  but  now  I  would  be  a  poor 
creature  not  to  give  my  brave  soldier  a  welcome." 

"If  Monsieur  will  excuse  me "  said  Valcourt,  offer- 
ing his  hand. 

Jim  Horton  took  it,  wondering  where  the  adventure 
was  to  lead.  She  was  a  very  remarkable  person  and  her 
elan  had  already  carried  him  off  his  feet.  Taking  his  hand 
in  hers,  with  a  charming  simplicity,  she  led  him  into  the 
room  at  the  rear,  now  occupied  by  a  number  of  persons  of 
61 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

both  sexes,  and  bade  Monsieur  Javet  himself  serve  them. 
And  when  they  were  seated  at  a  table,  her  hand  still  in 
his,  she  examined  him  with  a  new  interest. 

"It  is  indeed  you,"  she  said  gayly,  "and  yet  you  seem 
different — more  calm,  more  silent.  What  is  it?" 

"I've  had  two  months  in  the  hospital." 

"And  you're  quite  strong  again?" 

"Oh  yes.    And  you  have  been  well — Piquette?" 

"Well — but  so  ennuyee.  It  is  why  I  come  back  here  to 
de  Quartier  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  I've  been  posing 
for  Monsieur  Valcourt — La  Liberte.  He  says  my  figure 
is  better  than  ever.  And  Valcourt  knows.'* 

"I'm  sure  you  are  very  lovely." 

"La,  la,  mon  vieux,  but  you  are  the  grand  serieiix.  Of 
course  I  am  lovely.  It  is  my  business.  But  you  do  not 
show  me  'ow  lovely  I  am,  for  you  are  so  quiet — so  cool 

Jim  Horton  laughed  and  caught  her  fingers  to  his  lipst 

"You  are — Piquette.    That  is  enough." 

"C'est  mieiuc.  But  you  are  change'.  One  does  not  look 
deaf  in  de  eyes  wit'out  feeling  its  col'  touch.  Oh,  but  I 
am  glad  that  you  are  come  back  to  me.  You  s'all  be 
'ere  long?" 

"I  don't  know — when  I  shall  get  my  orders." 

"But  until  then — t'ings  s'all  be  as  dey  were  wit'  us 
two,  eh,  my  little  one?  An'  I  s'all  'elp  you  now  in  de 
great  affair?  But  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  becomes  more 
onpleasant.  He  is  a  very  tiresome  ol'  man  ,...** 

Jim  Horton  started  unconsciously.  Then  remembered 
that  it  was  in  connection  with  de  Vautrin  that  Quinlevin 
had  mentioned  this  very  girl  Piquette.  He  understood 
better  now  the  reason  for  Harry's  gesture  from  the  outer 
darkness.  The  meeting  had  been  a  stroke  of  Fate.  Per- 
haps she  held  the  key  to  the  riddle. 
62 


PIQUETTE 

"Tiresome,  yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "all  old  men  are  tire- 

"And  difficile"  she  mused,  sipping  at  her  glass.  "While 
I  am  pretty  he  likes  to  have  me  nearby.  But  I  know.  He 
cares  not'ing.  He  will  leave  me  not'ing.  I  am  not  con- 
tent. So  I  say  I  want  to  help  in  de  great  affair.  You 
have  planned  somet'ing  in  the  hospital — you  and  Mon- 
sieur Quinlevin?" 

"Er — nothing  definite." 

"Monsieur  le  Due  still  pays?'* 

Horton  meditated  for  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  said,  "he  has  stopped  paying.'* 

Piquette  Morin  leaned  further  over  the  table,  frowning. 

"Ah!     Since  when?" 

"For — er — three  months  or  more." 

"Then  you  t'ink  he  suspects  somet'ing?'* 

"I  don't  know.    It  looks  so,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  perhaps."  She  paused  a  moment  and  then,  "I 
make  him  talk  about  de  past,  as  you  ask'  me  to.  I  am 
no  saint  and  de  bon  Dieu  has  taught  me  to  look  out  for 
myself.  I  shall  continue.  If  he  tries  to  get  rid  of  me  de 
way  he  did  wit'  his  wife,  he  will  find  me  troublesome." 

Horton  laughed.  "I  don't  doubt  it."  And  then,  care- 
fully, "You  heard  how  he  got  rid  of  her?"  he  questioned. 

"It  was  'er  riches,  of  course.  'E  spent  'er  'dot'  in  a 
few  month  gambling  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  den  when  'e 
came  to  'er  for  more  'e  abuse  and  beat  'er."  She  pause'd 
and  her  dark  eyes  snapped  viciously.  "  'E  would  not  have 
beaten  me,"  she  finished. 

"And  then?"  he  asked,  wondering  whither  the  conver- 
sation was  leading. 

"And  den,  as  you  know,  she  ran  away  to  Ireland " 

"To  Ireland "  he  muttered  eagerly. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  with  a  glance  at  him.  "And  when 
'e  got  enough  money  'e  sail  'round  de  worl'  enjoying  him- 
63 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

self.  Even  now  sometimes  'e  is  a  beast.  It  is  den  I  come 
back  to  de  Quartier  where  I  am  born  and  bred — to  be 
merry  again."  She  sighed  and  then  laughed  gayly.  "But 
to-night  we  mus'  not  talk  of  dis  tiresome  matter.  It 
is  your  night,  mon  vieux,  and  we  s'all  make  it  'appy." 

He  kissed  the  rosy  palm  she  thrust  to  his  lips,  with 
difficulty  concealing  his  curiosity. 

"But  the  child  of  Monsieur  the  Due "  he  urged 

after  the  moment  of  badinage.  "He  said  nothing ?** 

He  paused  as  though  in  doubt. 

She  shrugged  carelessly  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Monsieur  is  cautious.  'E  spoke  not'ing  of  de  child, 
except  to  say  dat  it  died  wit'  de  mother.  De  money  came 
to  'im.  Dat  was  all  'e  cared  about,  mon  'Arry." 

To  Jim  Horton  no  light  seemed  to  dawn.  And  how  to 
question  without  arousing  the  girl's  suspicions  was  more 
that  he  could  plan.  But  he  remembered  Quinlevin's 
uncertainty  in  the  hospital — his  thought  that  Harry 
might  have  talked  to  this  girl.  So  he  took  a  chance. 

"You  asked  the  Due  no  questions  that  might  have 
aroused  his  suspicions?" 

"No.  I  t'ink  not.  And  yet  I  remember  once  'e  ask' 
me  if  I  know  Monsieur  Quinlevin." 

"And  what  did  you  reply?" 

"Of  course,  dat  I  never  heard  of  'im." 

He  frowned  at  the  cigarette  in  his  fingers  as  Harry 
would  have  frowned  and  imitated  as  nearly  as  possible  the 
sullen  mood  of  his  brother. 

"The  money  has  stopped  coming  to  Quinlevin.  We've 
got  to  do  something." 

"Parfaitement"  said  Piquette  carelessly.  "De  time 
'as  come  to  produce  de  girl  Moira  and  de  papers." 

Her  glance  was  not  upon  his  face  or  she  would  have 
seen  the  look  of  bewilderment  and  surprise  suddenly  dis- 
tend his  eyes.  But  she  heard  him  gasp  and  turned  again 
64 


BIQUETTE 


toward  him.  But  by  this  time  the  missing  pieces  of  the 
puzzle  were  at  his  fingers'  ends  and  he  gathered  them 
quickly.  It  was  Moira  who  all  these  years  had  uncon- 
sciously impersonated  the  dead  child  who  would  have  in- 
herited. And  Quinlevin  had  bled  the  Due  for  years  with 
promises  of  silence.  Harry  had  connived  at  the  plot  and 
now  the  coup  they  planned  meant  a  sum  of  not  less  than 
"seven  figures."  And  Piquette  knew  all.  Blackmail  it 
was — of  the  blackest. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  dare  to  speak  for  fear  of 
betraying  himself.  And  then  only  assented  safely  to  her 
suggestion. 

"Yes ;  it  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done." 

"It  mus'  be  manage*  carefully.  You  are  sure  de  papers 
are  all  correct?" 

"It  is  as  to  that  Monsieur  Quinlevin  has  gone  to  Ire- 
land." 

"Ah,  I  see — we  mus*  wait  until  'e  comes  back.  But  I 
s'all  *elp  you,  man  ami.  You  will  rely  upon  me,  n'est  ce 
pas?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

His  mind  was  so  full  of  this  astonishing  revelation  that 
he  sat  silent  and  motionless  while  she  changed  the  subject 
and  chattered  on.  The  charm  of  the  chance  encounter 
was  gone.  Gamine  she  might  be,  and  irresponsible  like 
others  of  her  kind  in  Paris  or  elsewhere,  but  she  was  not 
for  him.  He  had  a  standard  to  measure  her  by. 

"You  are  so  triste,  *Arry,"  she  broke  in  suddenly.  "I 
do  not  t'ink  I  like  you  so  triste.  What  s'all  we  care,  you 
and  I,  for  Monsieur  le  Due  an*  'is  money  ?  To  be  young 
an*  in  love " 

She  caught  both  of  his  hands  across  the  table  and  held 
them.  "You  are  not  yet  well,  'Arry.  I  can  see.  It  is 
dat  for  so  long  you  do  not  know  comfort  an'  'appiness. 
65 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Allans!    I  s'all  make  you  laugh  again,  until  de  triste  look 
come  no  more  into  your  eyes.'* 

He  was  about  to  give  some  token  of  his  appreciation 
that  would  satisfy  her  when  he  saw  her  glance  past  his 
shoulder  toward  the  door  which  led  into  the  bar. 

"Your  f  rien'  who  was  wit'  you — 'e  'as  come  back  again," 
she  whispered. 

"Ah "  he  turned  and  saw  Harry  peering  through 

the  door. 

"  *E  wants  you  to  come?  C'est  embetant!  Sen'  'im 
away.'* 

"I'm  afraid  I "     He  rose  uncertainly  and  turned. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "I'll  see."     And  then  walked  out  into 
the  bar  where  Harry  obstinately  awaited  him. 

"I've  had  enough  of  this,"  growled  his  brother.  "You 
come  out  of  here  with  me  or  I'll " 

"Don't  be  a  fool.  You  could  see  that  I  couldn't  help 
it." 

"You  can  help  it  now " 

"All  right.  We'll  have  this  thing  out,  you  and  I — to- 
night. You  meet  me  at  the  corner  toward  the  Boulevard 
in  twenty  minutes.  I'll  get  rid  of  her." 

And  without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  returned  to 
Piquette,  his  mind  made  up. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  to  her,  "but  I've  some  urgent  busi- 
ness with  this  man.  It  can't  be  put  off.  But  I  must  see 
you  soon " 

She  pouted  and  rose. 

"I  can't  explain — not  now.  You  won't  be  cross " 

"It  is  not — anodder  woman ?"  she  asked  shrewdly. 

"Another ?     How  can  you  ask?     No.     There  are 

no  other  women  in  Paris,  Piquette." 

"You  are  cruel,"  she  muttered  in  a  low  tone,  her  dark 
eyes  flashing. 

66 


PIQUETTE 


"No.  It  is  a  matter  of  importance.  Will  you  let  me 
have  your  address ?" 

"No  82  Boulevard  Clichy — de  same  place." 

"Good.     To-morrow  I  will  write  you." 

Without  a  word  she  gathered  up  her  cloak  and  led  the 
way  out,  looking  about  curiously  for  her  enemy  of  the 
evening.  But  Harry  had  disappeared.  She  said  nothing 
and  they  went  out  into  the  street  where  Jim  Horton  found 
a  cab  and  put  her  into  it. 

"Mechant!"  she  whispered  softly. 

"It  is  not  my  fault,  Piquette.     Soon " 

He  gave  the  address  to  the  cocker  and  she  was  gone. 

Jim  Horton  stood  for  a  moment  listening  to  the  sounds 
of  the  retreating  fiacre  as  it  rattled  away  over  the  cobble- 
stones and  then  turned  slowly  back,  his  anger  at  his  dis- 
coveries, long  repressed  by  the  necessities  of  his  mas- 
querade, suddenly  bursting  the  barriers  of  his  self-control. 
Moira — innocent — the  catspaw,  the  stool-pigeon  for  these 
two  rascals!  How  much  did  she  know?  How  could 
Quinlevin  have  carried  the  deception  out  all  these  years 
without  de  Vautrin  suspecting  something?  And  if,  as 
it  seemed,  he  was  suspicious  of  them  now,  who  had  told? 
His  own  duty  seemed  very  clear.  Every  impulse  of 
honor  and  decency  urged  that  he  find  this  Due  de  Vautrin 
and  tell  the  whole  truth.  But  there  was  Moira  .  .  .  his 
first  duty  was  to  her.  But  telling  her  meant  revealing 
the  secret  of  Harry's  disgrace  and  his  own  part  in  it. 
That  would  be  a  difficult  thing  to  do,  but  he  would  have 
to  do  it.  He  would  tell  her  to-morrow. 

As  for  Harry — he  would  make  short  work  of  him.  He 
went  with  long  determined  strides  to  the  appointed  spot 
and  Harry  met  him  with  a  threatening  air. 

"What  the  Hell  has  she  been  saying?"  he  muttered. 

Jim  Horton  was  angry,  but  he  kept  himself  well  in 
hand,  aware  of  his  own  physical  superiority  to  this  blust- 
67 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

ering  shell  of  intrigue,  deceit  and  cowardice,  built  in  his 
own  image.  If  earlier  in  the  evening  he  had  had  his  mo- 
ments of  pity  for  his  brother's  misfortunes,  if  he  had 
planned  to  make  restitution  for  the  imprudence  that  had 
resulted  in  their  undoing,  he  had  no  such  gentle  feeling 
or  purpose  now. 

As  he  didn't  reply,  his  brother  continued  angrily. 

"You've  gone  about  your  limit,  I  tell  you.  What  did 
she  tell  you?" 

"Everything.  I've  got  the  whole  story.  And  I'd  like 
to  tell  you  before  we  go  any  further  that  you're  just 
about  the  crookedest "  He  broke  off  with  a  shrug. 

"What's  the  use?  The  worst  thing  I  could  say  would 
be  a  compliment.  But  you've  come  to  the  end  of  your 
tether.  I  don't  know  why  I  hoped  there  might  be  a  chance 
of  getting  you  to  go  straight — for  her — but  I  did.  The 
interesting  revelations  of  this  charming  lady  have  re- 
moved the  impression.  The  money  you  took  from  the 
estate,  your  questionable  deals  in  America,  your  habits, 
put  you  outside  the  pale  of  decency,  but  the  blackmail  of 
the  Due  with  your  own  wife  as  stool-pigeon " 

Harry  in  a  sudden  blind  fury  that  took  no  thought 
of  consequences  struck  viciously,  but  Jim,  who  had  been 
watching  for  the  blow,  warded  it,  tripped  his  brother 
neatly  and  sent  him  spinning  against  the  wall  where  he 
fell  and  lay  motionless.  But  he  was  unhurt — only  be- 
wildered by  the  result  of  his  own  incapacity. 

"Get  up!"  Jim  ordered.  "Somebody  will  be  coming 
along  in  a  moment  and  we'll  both  be  going  with  the 
police." 

Harry  saw  reason  in  that  and  slowly  got  to  his  feet, 

pale,  still  trembling  with  rage,  rubbing  his  hip  joint,  but 

subdued.     The  place  they  had  chosen  was  in  the  shadow 

and  the  hour  was  late,  and  no  one  was  about,  but  Jim 

68 


PIQUE TTE 


Horton  took  a  glance  up  and  down  the  deserted  street 
before  he  resumed  his  interrupted  remarks. 

"I  don't  want  any  man's  uniform  when  it's  been  d&- 
filed.  You  ought  to  have  known  that.  I'm  going  to  take 
it  off  and  give  it  back  to  you." 

He  saw  the  eager  surprised  look  that  came  into  Harry's 
face  and  raised  his  hand  in  warning — "But  not  yet.  First 
I'm  going  to  tell  your  wife  the  truth  and  then  I'm  going 
to  warn  the  Due  de  Vautrin." 

Harry  started  back  as  though  to  dodge  another  blow, 
the  reaction  of  his  venture  setting  in  with  the  terror  of 
this  information. 

"Jim !"  he  whispered,  clutching  at  his  arm.  "You 
wouldn't  do  that,  Jim.  My  God!  It's  ruin  to  me — and 
you  too." 

"I'm  prepared  for  that " 

"Don't,  for  God's  sake  don't !  Wait.  I've  met  you 
half  way,  haven't  I?  I'll  do  anything  you  say.  I'll  steer 
Quinlcvin  off  and  drop  the  thing.  It  was  his  idea — not 
mine.  And  he  wouldn't  have  thought  of  it  if  the  old  man 
hadn't  shut  off  the  allowance " 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  Jim  broke  in  sternly.  "How  much 
money  did  Quinlevin  owe  you?" 

"Twenty  thousand  dollars " 

"And  that  was  Moira's  price "  contemptuously. 

"I  wanted  her.  I  loved  her.  I  swear  to  God  I  did.  I 
love  her  now.  I'd  give  anything  to  be  able  to  go  to  her 
to-night " 

"You !  You  forget  what  I  know." 

"It's  the  truth." 

"How  much  were  you  to  get  of  this  money  of  thd 
Due's?" 

Harry  halted,  mumbling,  "That  wasn't  settled." 

"Well,  it's  settled  now,"  said  Jim,  with  an  air  of  final- 
ity, turning  aside. 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Tell  her — in  the  morning." 

"You  can't,  Jim.  Why,  she'd  go  right  to  Quinlevin." 

"I  expect  her  to — and  the  Duke." 

Harry  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  his  fingers  work- 
ing at  his  trouser  legs,  but  he  was  speechless. 

"That's  about  all,  I  think,"  said  Jim  dryly.  "Good- 
bye." 

"Then  you  won't  listen — not  if  I  promise " 

"What ?" 

"Anything.  Why,  you've  got  me,  Jim.  I  can't  do  a 
thing  with  you  ready  to  tell  Moira — even  if  I  wanted  to. 
What's  the  use?  It  only  means  ruin  for  you.  Wait  a 
few  days  and  we'll  have  another  talk;  just  wait  until 
to-morrow  night.  Give  me  a  chance  to  think.  I'll  even — 
I'll  even  get  out  of  France  and  go  out  West  somewhere  and 
make  a  fresh  start.  I  will.  I  mean  it.  I  did  you  a  dirty 
trick  once,  but  I'll  try  to  square  myself.  Give  me  a 
chance.  Think  it  over.  Meet  me  to-morrow.  I'm  all  in 
to-night.  Promise  you  won't  speak." 

"No,"  said  Jim,  after  a  moment  of  deliberation.  "I'll 
promise  nothing,  but  I'll  meet  you  to-morrow  night  at 
Javet's — at  twelve — with  the  money." 

Harry  gasped  a  sigh  of  relief  and  straightened,  offer- 
ing his  hand.  "Thanks,  Jim.  To-morrow.  And  you 
won't  tell  her,  I  know.  You  couldn't.  It  would  be  too 
cruel.  She'll  suffer — my  God !  You  know  her.  Can't  you 
see  how  she'd  suffer?" 

"I— I  didn't  start  this  thing " 

"But  you'll  finish  it,  Jim.  She  believes  in  him,  even  if 
she  doesn't  believe  in  me.  It  will  kill  her." 

He  saw  that  he  had  made  an  impression  on  his  brother. 
Jim  stood  silent,  his  head  bowed. 

"Don't  tell  her  to-morrow,  Jim,"  Harry  pleaded. 
"Promise." 

70 


PIQUETTE 


Jim  shrugged  and  turned. 

"All  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'll  sleep  on  it." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  out  into  the  ilim 
light  of  the  street,  moving  toward  the  Rue  de  Tavennes. 
He  did  not  even  turn  his  head  to  see  what  became  of  his 
brother.  Already  he  had  forgotten  him.  The  heat  of  his 
passion  had  suffered  a  strange  reaction.  To  resolve  to 
tell  Moira  the  truth,  even  to  threaten  to  tell  her  was  one 
thing,  but  to  tell  was  another.  And  curiously  enough 
Harry's  picture  of  the  consequences,  drawn  even  in  the 
stress  of  fear,  was  true  enough — Jim  knew  it — was  true. 
He  knew  her  pride,  her  spirit.  The  revelation  would  kill 
them — and  destroy  her. 

She  was  so  dependent  on  him.  She  didn't  know  how 
greatly.  And  he  had  been  until  the  present  moment  so 
dependent  upon  her.  He  realized  what  her  visits  had 
meant  to  him,  how  deep  had  been  the  joy  of  their  evening 
alone  in  the  studio.  He  did  not  dare  to  think  of  her  now 
as  he  had  been  thinking  of  her  tnen — for  during  the 
weeks  of  his  convalescence  and  the  culmination  of  their 
friendship  to-night  Harry  had  seemed  far  off,  vague  and 
impalpable.  But  their  meeting  had  changed  all  this  and 
he  was  thankful  that  he  had  had  enough  manhood  to  keep 
his  wits  when  he  had  been  alone  with  her.  Moira — the 
pity  of  it — had  given  him  signs  (that  he  might  read  and 
run)  that  the  mockery  of  the  marriage  was  a  mockery  no 
longer.  And  it  was  her  very  confession  of  indifference 
and  pity  for  Harry  as  she  had  known  him,  that  seemed 
to  give  Jim  the  right  to  care  for  and  protect  her.  He 
did  care  for  her,  he  was  now  willing  to  confess  in  a  way 
far  from  fraternal.  He  had  always  been  too  busy  to 
think  about  women,  but  Moira  had  crept  into  his  life 
when  he  was  ill  and  unnerved,  needing  the  touch  of  a 
friendly  hand,  and  their  peculiar  relationship  had  given 
him  no  chance  of  escape — nor  her.  She  had  captured 
71 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

his  imagination  and  he  had  succeeded  where  Harry  had 
not  in  winning  her  affection. 

It  was  a  dangerous  situation  and  yet  it  fascinated  him. 
The  knowledge  that  he  must  cause  her  suffering  had  weak- 
ened his  resolve  for  a  moment,  but  as  he  walked  into  the 
Rue  de  Tavennes  he  saw  it  for  the  fool's  paradise  that 
it  was.  He  would  spend  to-morrow  with  her — just  to- 
morrow— that  could  do  no  harm  and  then — she  should 
know  everything. 

He  found  his  way  into  the  court  and  up  the  stairs. 
The  studio  door  was  closed,  implacable  as  the  destiny 
that  barred  him  from  her. 

He  went  into  his  room,  closed  the  door  and  slowly  un- 
dressed. Then  lay  on  the  bed,  staring  for  a  long  while 
at  the  reflection  of  the  street-lamp  upon  the  ceiling.' 
Moira  *  .  .  happiness  .  .  .  reputation — and  dishonor. 
Or  .  .  ...  outcast  .  *  .  but  honorable. 


CHAPTER  VI 

YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 

BUT  weariness  and  anxiety  had  to  pay  tribute  at 
last  and  he  slept.  It  was  broad  daylight  when  he 
awoke  to  the  sound  of  a  loud  hammering  upon  the 
door  and  a  high,  clear,  humorous  voice  calling  his  name. 

"Lazy  bones!  Get  up!  Will  you  be  lying  abed  all 
day?" 

"A— all  right " 

He  opened  his  eyes  with  an  effort  and  glanced  at  his 
wrist  watch Eight  o'clock. 

"Coffee  in  the  studio,  Harry  dear,  in  ten  minutes." 

"Oh!   All  right " 

The  hammering  stopped,  foot-steps  retreated  and  Jim 
Horton  tumbled  out,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  gazing  at  the 
golden  lozenges  of  light  upon  the  wall.  It  was  a  most 
inspiriting  reveille,  arresting  as  the  shrill  clarion  of  camp 
on  a  frosty  morning;  but  sweeter  far,  joyous  with  prom- 
ise of  the  new  day.  It  was  only  during  the  progress  of 
his  hasty  toilet  that  the  douche  of  cold  water  over  his 
head  and  face  recalled  to  him  with  unpleasant  suddenness 
and  distinctness  the  events  of  the  night  before,  and  he 
emerged  from  vigorous  rubbing  exhilarated  but  sober. 
There  was  a  lot  of  thinking  to  be  done  and  a  difficult 
resolution  to  make,  and  with  Moira  at  his  elbow  it  wasn't 
going  to  be  easy.  But  by  the  time  he  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  studio,  the  pleasure  of  the  immediate  prospect 
made  ready  his  good  cheer  for  the  morning  greeting.  He 
heard  her  voice  calling  and  entered.  A  new  fire  blazed 
on  the  hearth,  and  an  odor  of  coffee  filled  the  air.  She 
73 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

emerged  from  the  door  of  the  small  kitchen,  a  coffee-pot 
and  a  heaping  plateful  of  brioches  in  her  hands. 

"Good  morning!  I've  been  waiting  for  you  an  hour 
or  more.  You've  been  developing  amazing  bad  habits  in 
the  hospital." 

"Why  didn't  you  call  me  before?" 

"Sure  and  I  believed  you  might  be  thinking  I  was  anx- 
ious to  see  you." 

"And  aren't  you?" 

"And  do  you  think  I'd  be  telling — even  if  I  was  ?" 

"You  might." 

"And  I  won't.  Will  you  have  your  coffee  with  cream 
and  sugar?" 

"If  you  please." 

It  was  real  cream  and  real  sugar — some  magic  of  Mad- 
ame Toupin's,  she  explained,  and  the  brioches  were  un- 
surpassed. And  so  they  sat  and  ate,  Moira  chattering 
gayly  of  plans  for  the  day,  while  the  ancient  dowager 
upon  the  easel  who  had  braved  the  Fokkers  and  the  long- 
range  cannon  looked  down  upon  them  benignly  and  with 
a  little  touch  of  pity,  too,  as  though  she  knew  how  much 
of  their  courage  was  to  be  required  of  them. 

Horton  ate  silently,  putting  in  a  word  here  and  there, 
content  to  listen  to  her  plans,  to  watch  the  deft  motions 
of  her  fingers  and  the  changing  expressions  upon  her  face. 
Once  or  twice  he  caught  her  looking  at  him  with  a  puzzled 
line  at  her  brows,  but  he  let  his  glance  pass  and  spoke  of 
casual  things,  the  location  of  the  bank  where  he  must  get 
his  money,  the  excellence  of  the  coffee,  the  kindness  of 
Nurse  Newberry,  aware  that  these  topics  were  not  the 
ones  uppermost  in  his  mind,  or  in  hers. 

"You're  a  bit  subdued  this  morning,  Harry  dear,"  she 
said  at  last,  whimsically.  "Maybe  that  goose  was  too 
much  for  you." 

"Subdued!"  he  laughed. 

74 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


"You  have  all  the  air  of  a  man  with  something  on  his 
conscience.  You  used  to  wear  that  look  in  America,  and 
I  let  you  be.  But  somehow  things  seemed  different  with 
us  two.  Would  you  be  willing  to  tell  me?" 

"There  isn't  a  thing — except — except  your  kindness. 
I  don't  deserve  that,  you  know." 

She  looked  at  him  seriously  and  then  broke  into  laugh- 
ter. 

"Would  it  make  you  feel  more  comfortable  if  I  laid 
you  over  the  shoulders  with  a  mahl  stick?" 

"I  think  it  would,"  he  grinned. 

"Sure  and  that  is  one  of  the  few  pleasant  preroga- 
tives of  matrimony — in  Ireland." 

"And  elsewhere "  added  Horton. 

"But  I  do  want  to  know  if  anything*s  troubling  you. 

Are  you  still  worried "  she  took  a  brioche  and  smiled 

at  it  amiably,  "because  we're  not  appropriately  chaper- 
oned?" 

"No — not  so  much.  I  see  you're  quite  able  to  look  out 
for  yourself." 

"And  you  derive  some  comfort  from  the  fact?"  she 
asked. 

He  looked  at  her,  their  eyes  met  and  they  both  burst 
into  laughter. 

"Moira — you  witch !  But  you'd  better  not  tempt  me  too 
far." 

"Sure  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  alanah,"  she  said, 
sedate  again  and  very  cool,  "or  of  any  man,"  and  then, 
mischievously,  "But  your  doubts  needn't  have  kept  you 
from  kissing  me  a  good  morning." 

"It's  not  too  late  now,"  said  Horton,  abruptly  rising 
and  spilling  his  coffee.  He  passed  the  small  table  toward 
her  but  she  held  him  off  with  a  hand. 

"No.  The  essence  is  gone.  You'll  please  pick  up 
75 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 


your  coffee-cup  and  pass  the  butter.  Thanks.  It's  very 
nice  butter,  isn't  it?" 

"Excellent,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"And  now  you're  vexed.     Is  there  no  pleasing  a  man?" 

"If  you'd  only  stop  pleasing — you'd  make  it  easier  for 
me  to  see  a  way " 

She  was  all  attention  ac  once,  listening.  But  he  paused 
and  set  his  coffee-cup  down  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"Stop  pleasing!  Sure  and  you  must  not  ask  the  im- 
possible," she  said,  her  mouth  full. 

But  he  wouldn't  smile  and  only  glowered  into  the  fire. 
"I  want  you  to  let  me  try  to  pay  you  what  I  owe  you — 
to  earn  your  respect  and  affection " 

"Well,  I'm  letting  you,"  she  smiled  over  her  coffee-cup. 

"I — I've  gotten  you  under  false  pretenses — under  th« 
spell  of  a — a  temporary  emotion — a  sense  of  duty,"  he 
rambled,  saying  partly  what  Harry  might  say  and  partly 
what  was  in  his  own  heart.  "I  want  to  win  the  right  to 
you,  to  show  you  that — that  I'm  not  as  rotten  as  you 

used  to  think  me "  He  didn't  know  how  far  the 

thought  was  leading  and  in  fear  of  it,  rose  and  walked 
away,  suddenly  silent. 

"Well,"  he  heard  her  saying,  "I  don't  think  you  are." 

Was  she  laughing  at  him  ?  He  turned  toward  her  again 
but  the  back  of  her  dark  head  was  very  demure.  He  ap- 
proached quite  close,  near  enough  to  touch  her,  but  she 
held  the  coffee-cup  to  her  lips,  and  then  when  she  had 
drunk,  sprang  up  and  away. 

"What's  the  use  of  thinking  about  the  past  or  the 
future,  alanah,  when  we  have  the  present — with  a  gor- 
geous morning  and  happy  Paris  just  at  our  elbows. 
Allans!  You  shall  wash  the  coffee-cups  and  the  pot  while 
I  put  on  my  hat,  for  there's  nothing  like  sticking  some- 
thing into  a  man's  hands  to  keep  them  out  of  mischief. 
76 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


And  then  we'll  be  wandering  forth,  you  and  I,  into  the 
realms  of  delight." 

He  was  glad  at  the  thought  of  going  out  into  the  air, 
away  from  the  studio,  for  here  within  four  walls  she  was 
too  close  to  him,  their  seclusion  too  intimate.  If  he  only 
were  Harry  !  He  would  have  taken  her  tantalizing  moods 
as  a  husband  might  and  conquered  her  by  strength  and 
tenderness.  But  as  it  was,  all  he  could  feel  beside  tender- 
ness was  pity  for  her  innocence  and  helplessness,  and  con- 
tempt and  not  a  little  pity  for  himself, 

But  the  air  of  out-of-doors  was  to  restore  him  to  san- 
ity. It  was  one  of  those  late  November  days  of  sunshine, 
warm  and  hazy,  when  outer  wraps  are  superfluous,  and 
arm  in  arm,  like  two  good  comrades,  and  as  the  custom 
was  in  the  Quartier,  they  sauntered  forth,  in  the  direc- 
tion she  indicated.  There  were  to  be  no  vehicles  for  them, 
she  insisted,  for  fiacres  cost  much  and  money  was  scarce. 
Life  seemed  to  be  coursing  very  strongly  through  her 
veins,  and  the  more  he  felt  the  contagion  of  her  youth 
and  joy,  the  more  trying  became  the  task  he  had  set  him- 
self. But  sober  though  he  was,  within,  he  could  not  resist 
the  spell  of  her  enthusiasms  and  he  put  the  evil  hour  from 
him.  This  day  at  least  should  be  hers  as  nearly  as  he 
could  make  it,  without  a  flaw.  They  turned  down  the 
BouP  Miche  and  into  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  past  the 
Beaux  Arts  which  she  wished  to  show  him,  then  over  the 
Pont  des  Arts  to  the  Right  Bank.  They  stopped  on  the 
quai  for  a  moment  to  gaze  down  toward  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame,  while  Moira  painted  for  him  the  glories  that 
were  France.  He  had  lived  a  busy  life  and  had  had  little 
time  for  the  romances  of  great  nations,  but  he  remem- 
bered what  he  had  read  and,  through  Moira's  clear  intelli- 
gence, the  epic  filtered,  tinctured  with  its  color  and  ideal- 
ism. 

Then  under  the  arches  of  the  Louvre  to  the  Avenue  de 
77 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

1'Opera,  and  toward  the  banking  district.  All  Paris 
smiled.  The  blue  and  brown  mingled  fraternally  and  the 
streets  were  crowded.  Except  for  the  uniforms,  which 
were  seen  everywhere,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  hardly 
a  month  ago  the  most  terrible  war  in  history  had  been 
fought,  almost  at  the  city's  gates. 

When  he  reached  his  bank,  which  was  in  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens,  near  the  Opera,  Jim  Horton  had  to 
move  with  caution.  But  Moira  fortunately  had  some 
shopping  to  do  and  in  her  absence  he  contrived  to  get 
some  checks,  and  going  into  the  Grand  Hotel  drew  a 
check  signed  with  his  own  name,  and  payable  to  Henry 
G.  Horton,  and  this  he  presented  for  payment.  There 
was  some  delay  and  a  few  questions,  for  the  amount  was 
large — three  thousand  francs — but  he  showed  the  letters 
from  Moira  and  Quinlevin.  It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
that  he  went  out  and  met  Moira  near  the  Opera.  With 
a  grin  he  caught  her  by  the  arm,  exhibiting  a  large  packet 
of  bank-notes,  and  led  the  way  down  the  avenue  by  which 
they  had  come. 

"And  where  now,  Harry  dear?" 

"I'm  hungry.  To  the  most  expensive  restaurant  in 
Paris  for  dejeuner.  If  I'm  not  mistaken  we  passed  it  just 
here." 

"But  you  must  not — -I  won't  permit ** 

He  only  grinned  and  led  her  inside. 

"For  to-day  at  least,  Moira,  we  shall  live." 

"But  to  see  Paris,  en  Anglais,  that  is  not  to  live " 

"We  shall  see." 

The  tempting  meal  that  he  ordered  with  her  assistance, 
did  much  to  mollify  her  prudence  and  frugality  and  they 
breakfasted  in  state  on  the  best  that  the  market  provided. 

Afternoon  found  them  back  in  the  Boulevard  St.  Ger- 
main again,  after  an  eventful  interim  which  Jim  Horton 
had  filled,  above  her  protests,  in  a  drive  through  the  Bois 
78 


THROUGH  MOIRA'a  CLEAR  INTELLIGENCE  THE  EPIC  FILTERED 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


and  a  visit,  much  less  expensive,  to  a  cinema  show,  dur- 
ing which  she  held  his  hand.  And  now  a  little  weary  of 
all  the  world,  but  happy  in  each  other,  they  drifted  like 
the  flotsam  of  all  lovers  of  the  Rive  Gauche  toward  the 
Gardens  of  the  Luxembourg.  They  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  balustrade  overlooking  the  esplanade  and  lawn  in 
front  of  the  Palace,  watching  the  passers-by,  always 
paired,  piou-piou  and  milliner,  workman  and  bonne, 
flaneur  and  grisette,  for  the  warm  weather  had  brought 
them  out.  There  was  no  military  band  playing,  but  they 
needed  no  music  in  their  hearts,  which  were  already  beat- 
ing in  time  to  the  most  exquisite  of  interludes.  Twilight 
was  falling,  the  Paris  dusk,  full  of  mystery  and  elusive 
charm;  lights  beyond  the  trees  flickered  into  being,  and 
the  roar  of  the  city  beyond  their  breathing-spot  dimin- 
ished into  a  low  murmur.  Fqr  a  while  their  conversa- 
tion had  relapsed  into  short  sentences  and  monosyllables, 
as  though  the  gayety  of  their  talk  was  no  longer  sufficient 
to  conceal  their  thoughts,  which,  throwing  off  subterfuge, 
spoke  in  the  silences.  At  last  Moira  shivered  slightly  and 
rose. 

"Come,"  she  said  gently,  "we  must  be  going,"  and  led 
the  way  toward  the  exit  from  the  Gardens  on  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Michel.  Horton  followed  silently — heavily,  for 
the  end  of  his  perfect  day  was  drawing  near  and  with 
it  the  duty  which  was  to  bring  disillusionment  and  distress 
to  Moira  and  ostracism  and  hell  to  him. 

But  when  they  reached  the  studio  Moira  set  with  alac- 
rity at  putting  things  to  rights  and  preparing  the  eve- 
ning meal. 

"We  shall  be  having  cold  goose  and  a  bit  of  salad,  you 
extravagant  person,"  she  said.  "I  feel  as  though  I  had  no 
right  to  be  eating  again  for  a  week." 

And  so  they  dined  upon  the  remains  of  their  feast,  but 
warmed  by  the  cheerful  blaze,  both  conscious  of  the  im- 
79 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

minent  hour  of  seclusion  and  affinity.  Moira  had  little 
to  say  and  in  the  silences  Jim  caught  her  gaze  upon  him 
once  or  twice  as  though  in  inquiry  or  incomprehension, 
and  wondered  whether  in  their  long  day  together,  he  had 
said  or  done  anything  which  might  have  led  her  to  sus- 
pect the  truth.  But  he  had  been  cautious,  following  her 
leads  in  conversation,  and  playing  his  discreditable  role 
with  rather  creditable  skill.  The  end  was  near.  He 
would  see  Harry  to-night  at  Javet's  and  to-morrow  he 
would  tell  her,  but  it  was  like  the  thought  of  death  to 
him — after  to-day — and  he  failed  to  hide  from  her  the 
traces  of  his  misery. 

"I  wish  that  you  would  tell  me  what  worries  you,"  she 
said  gently,  after  a  long  silence. 

He  started  forward  in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  "Er — 
nothing,"  he  stammered,  "there's  nothing." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  she  said,  evenly.  "I  know.  I've  felt 
it  all  day — even  when  you  seemed  most  happy."  And 
then  quickly,  "Is  it  me  that  you're  worrying  about?" 

"About  you?"  he  asked  to  gain  time,  and  then,  grasp- 
ing at  the  straw  she  threw  him,  "about — you — yes — 
Moira,"  he  said  quietly.; 

It  was  the  first  definite  return  to  the  topic  of  the  morn- 
ing, which  they  had  both  banished  as  though  by  an  un- 
derstanding. But  Moira  was  persistent, 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Because — because  I  don't  deserve — all  this — from, 
you." 

She  smiled  softly  from  her*  chair  nearby. 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  the  best  judge  of  that?*' 

"No,"  he  said  miserably.  "No." 

"You  can't  deny  a  woman  the  faith  of  her  intuitions.'* 

"And  if  I  proved  your  intuitions  false " 

"Sure  and  I'd  never  speak  to  you  again,"  ehe  put  in 
quaintly. 

80 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


"It  might  be  better  if  you  didn't,"  he  muttered,  half 
aloud. 

She  heard  him,  or  seemed  to,  for  she  turned  quickly  and 
laid  her  hand  over  his. 

"Don't  be  spoiling  our  day,  dear,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"God  has  been  good  in  bringing  you  back  to  me.  What- 
ever happens  I  won't  be  regretting  it." 

His  fingers  caught  and  pressed  hers  and  then  quickly 
relinquished  them  as  he  rose,  struggling  for  his  com- 
posure. 

"You  will  regret  it,"  he  said  fiercely.  "I  tell  you  you 
can't  thank  God  for  me,  because  I'm  not  what  you  want 
to  think  me.  I'm  what  the  Harry  you  knew  in  America 
was,  only  worse — a  liar,  a  cheat " 

He  paused  as  she  rose,  saving  himself  the  revelation  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  by  the  sight  of  her  face  in  the  fire- 
light as  she  turned.  It  was  transfigured  by  her  new  faith 
in  him,  and  in  her  joy  in  the  possession.  She  came  to 
him  quickly,  and  put  her  soft  fingers  over  his  lips,  while 
the  other  arm  went  around  his  shoulders. 

"Hush,  alanah,"  she  said. 

"No — you  mustn't,  Moira,"  he  muttered,  taking  her 
hands  down  and  clasping  them  both  in  his.  "You 
mustn't."  And  then,  at  the  look  of  disappointment  that 
came  into  her  eyes,  caught  both  her  hands  to  his  lips 
and  covered  them  with  kisses.  Against  the  sweet  allure 
of  her  he  struggled,  sure  that  never  mortal  man  had 
been  so  tried  before,  but  surer  still  that  the  love  he  bore 
for  her  was  greater  than  all  temptation. 

She  looked  at  him,  flushed  at  the  warmth  of  this  for- 
mal caress,  which  left  no  doubt  of  him,  but  marveling  at 
his  renunciation  of  her  lips,  which  had  been  so  near. 

"I  can't  be  listening  when  you  call  yourself  such 
names." 

81 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  don't  understand — and  I  can't  tell  you — any- 
thing more  just  now.  I  haven't — the  will." 

He  noted  the  look  of  alarm  which  was  a  token  of  the 
suffering  he  must  cause  her  and  he  led  her  to  his  chair 
and  made  her  sit. 

"I  can't  make  you  unhappy — not  to-night.  I — I'm 
sorry  you  read  my  thoughts.  I  shouldn't  have  let  you 
see." 

He  had  turned  to  the  fire  and  leaned  against  the 
chimney  piece.  And  after  a  moment,  clear  and  very 
tender,  he  heard  her  voice. 

"You  must  tell  me  everything,  alanah.  I've  got  the 
right  to  it  now." 

He  shook  his  head  in  silent  misery. 

"But  you  must." 

"No.  I  can't." 

"Yes.  You  see,  things  are  different  with  us  two. 
You've  made  me  know  to-day  how  different.  Last  night 
I  called  to  your  mind  the  mockery  we'd  been  through, 
calling  it  marriage.  But  it  ioas  a  marriage,  and  the  dear 
God  has  willed  that  my  heart  should  beat  for  you  as 
gently  as  that  of  any  mother  for  its  babe.  It  softened 
in  the  hospital,  dear,  when  I  saw  you  lying  there  so  pale 
and  weak  against  the  pillows,  and  I  knew  that  if  God 
spared  you  for  me  I  would  make  amends " 

"You — make  amends "  he  gasped. 

"By  giving  you  all  that  I  had  of  faith,  hope  and  char- 
ity. Whatever  you  were,  whatever  you  are,  dear,  you're 
mine,  for  better  or  for  worse,  and  I  believe  in  you.  And 
your  troubles,  whatever  they  are — I'll  take  my  half  of 
them." 

"You  can't "  he  groaned. 

"Not  if  they  concern  me,"  she  continued  simply,  "for 
they're  mine  already." 

He  took  a  pace  or  two  away  from  her. 
82 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


"You  mustn't  speak  to  me  like  this." 

"And  why  not?  You're  mine  to  speak  to  as  I  please. 
Is  it  that  you  don't  love  me  enough,  alanah?" 

He  knew  that  she  wouldn't  have  asked  that  question,  if 
she  hadn't  already  seen  the  answer  in  his  eyes. 

"Love  you ?"  he  began,  his  eyes  shining  like  stars. 

And  then  suddenly,  as  though  their  very  glow  had  burned 
them  out,  they  turned  away,  dull  and  lusterless.  She 
watched  him  anxiously  for  a  moment  and  then  rose  and 
faced  him. 

"Well "  she  said  softly,  "I'm  waiting  for  your  an- 
swer." 

"I — I  can't  give  you  an  answer,"  he  said  in  a  colorless 
voice. 

"Then  I'll  be  giving  the  answer  for  you,  my  dear,  for 
I'm  not  without  eyes  in  my  head.  I  know  you  love  me 
and  I've  been  knowing  it  for  many  days.  And  it's  the  kind 
of  love  that  a  woman  wants,  the  love  that  gives  and  asks 
nothing."  She  paused,  breathing  with  difficulty,  the 
warm  color  rising  to  her  temples,  and  then  went  on 
gently,  proudly,  as  though  in  joy  of  her  confession. 
"And  I — it  is  the  same  with  me.  I've  tried  to  make  you 
understand.  ...  It  is  not  for  you  to  give  only.  .  .  ." 
She  halted  in  her  speech  a  moment  and  then  came  close 
to  him,  her  clear  gaze  seeking  his.  "I  love  you,  not  for 

what  you  have  suffered,  dear "  she  whispered,  "but 

for  what  you  are  to  me — not  because  you  are  my  husband, 
but  because  you  are  you> — the  only  one  in  all  the  world  for 
me." 

"Moira,"  he  whispered,  tensely,  as  his  arms  went  about 
her.  "God  forgive  me — I  worship  you." 

"God  will  forgive  you  that,  alanah,"  he  heard  her  say 
happily,  "since  I  do." 

He  touched  his  lips  to  her  brow  tenderly  .  .  .  then 
her  lips. 

83 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  love  me,"  he  muttered.  "Me?  You're  sure  that 
it's  me  that  you  love?" 

Her  eyes  opened,  startled  at  his  tone. 

"If  A  isn't  you  that  I  love,  then  I'm  sure  that  I  can't 
be  loving  any  one  at  all." 

"And  you'll  believe  in  me — whatever  happens?" 

"I  will "  she  repeated  pro.udly.  "Whatever  hap- 
pens— since  this  has  happened  to  us  both." 

"Some  day — you'll  know,"  he  muttered  painfully,  "that 
I — I'm  not  what  I  seem  to  be.  And  then  I  want  you  to 
remember  this  hour,  this  moment,  Moira,  as  it  is  to  me, 
...  I  want  you  to  remember  how  you  came  into  my  arms 
when  I  hadn't  the  strength  to  repel  you,  remember  the 
touch  of  my  lips  in  tenderness — and  in  reverence — Moira 
.  .  .  that  love  was  too  strong  for  me  ...  for  it  has 
made  me  false  to  myself  .  .  .  false  to  you.  .  .  ." 

She  drew  away  from  him  a  little,  deeply  perturbed. 
"You  frighten  me,  alanah." 

"I — I   don't   want   to.      To-morrow "  he   paused, 

searching  for  strength  to  speak.     But  it  did  not  come. 

"To-morrow.     What  do  you  mean?" 

The  repetition  of  the  word  seemed  like  a  confirmation 
of  his  resolution  and  shocked  him  into  action.  Quietly 
he  took  her  hands  down  from  his  shoulders,  kissed  them 
in  farewell,  and  turned  away. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  repeated. 

"That — that  to-morrow — you  shall  judge  me.'* 

The  tense  expression  of  her  anxiety  relaxed  and  she 
smiled. 

"You  needn't  fear  what  that  will  be." 

He  did  not  reply  but  stood  staring  fixedly  into  the 
fire.  She  came  around  to  him  and  laid  her  fingers  over 
his.  "Why  should  we  bother  about  to-morrow,  dear? 
To-day  was  yesterday's  to-morrow  and  see  what's  hap- 
pened to  us." 

84 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


"But  it  shouldn't  have  happened,"  he  groaned,  "it 
shouldn't  have  happened." 

"Then  why  should  I  thank  God  for  it ?" 

"Don't " 

"Yes.  Everything  will  be  right.  A  woman  knows  of 
these  things." 

He  smiled  at  her  tenderly,  but  he  didn't  attempt  to 
take  her  in  his  arms. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let  us  sit  down  by  the  fire  near  the 
blaze,  and  we  will  not  speak  of  to-morrow — just  of  to-day 
and  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  when  you  and  I  were 
learning  this  wonderful  thing.'* 

But  he  did  not  dare. 

"Moira,  I — I've  got  to  go  out  for  awhile — a  matter 
of  duty " 

"Now?"  she  faltered. 

"I  must.  An  engagement.  I'm  in  honor  bound " 

Now  really  alarmed,  she  caught  him  by  the  elbows  and 
looked  into  his  eyes. 

"An  engagement — to-night!  And  to-morrow ?" 

His  meaning  seemed  to  come  to  her  with  a  rush. 

"Harry !  This  engagement  to-night  has  something 

to  do  with  us — with  me»  To-morrow !  What  is  it, 

Harry?  Speak!" 

"I  can't.  I've  promised." 

"I  won't  let  you  go,  Harry.  It  is  something  that  has 
come  between  us " 

"It  has  always  been — between  us "  he  muttered. 

She  clung  to  him  and  held  him  as  he  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"Nothing — nothing  shall  come  between  us.  Nothing 
can.  I  don't  care  what  it  is.  'Until  death  us  do  part' — 
Don't  you  understand  what  that  means,  Harry?" 

The  repetition  of  his  brother's  name,  the  phrase  from 
85 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

the  marriage   service,  gave  him  resolution  to   avert  his 
face  from  the  piteous  pleading  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  because  I  understand  what  it  means  that  I 
have — the  courage  to  go — now — before  you  despise  me." 

"I  have  said  that  nothing  makes  any  difference.  I 
swear  it.  I  love  you,  dear.  There's  some  mistake.  You'll 
never  be  different  in  my  eyes,  whatever  happens — what- 
ever has  happened." 

"Good-bye,  Moira,"  he  whispered,  his  hands  clasping 
her  arms. 

"No,  no.  Not  now — not  to-night.  I  knew  that  to-day 
was  too  beautiful  to  last.  You — you've  frightened  me. 
Don't  go — please  don't  go." 

"Yes,"  he  said  firmly.     "I  must." 

But  she  was  strong,  and  greater  than  her  strength  was 
her  tenderness. 

"Look  me  in  the  eyes,  dear,  while  I'm  pleading  with 
you.  If  your  love  were  as  great  a  thing  as  mine " 

To  look  in  her  eyes,  he  knew,  was  fatal.  One  brief 
struggle  and  then  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held 
her  close  for  a  long  moment,  while  he  whispered  in  broken 
sentences. 

"My  love!  ...  if  you  hadn't  said  that!  You've  got 
to  know  what  my  love  means  .  .  .  sacrifice.  .  .  .  This 
moment  ...  is  mine.  .  .  .  Remember  it,  dear — as  it  is 
...  its  terrible  sweetness — its  sanctity — remember  that, 
too  .  .  .  because  that's  the  essence  of  it  ...  sanctity. 
God  bless  you,  Moira — whatever  happens " 

"Whatever  happens?" 

As  in  a  daze  he  straightened  and  looked  around.  Then 
almost  roughly  broke  away  from  her  and  rushed  to  the 
door,  taking  up  his  cap  and  overcoat  on  the  way. 

"Harry !" 

"Good-bye,"  he  called  hoarsely  as  he  opened  the  door 
and  went  out. 

86 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 


She  rushed  after  him  but  he  was  already  running  furi- 
ously down  the  stairs  into  the  dark. 

"Harry,"  she  called,  "Harry— come  back!" 

But  the  name  of  his  brother  made  him  rush  on  the 
more  blindly,  the  echoes  following1  him  down  into  ths 
court  and  past  the  open  gate  of  Madame  Toupin.  He 
hadn't  any  definite  idea  of  what  he  was  going  to  do.  The 
only  thing  that  he  was  sure  of  was  that  he  must  get 
away — anywhere — away  from  Moira  .  .  .  from  the  re- 
proach of  her  innocent  eyes,  of  her  confessions,  of  her 
tributes  of  submission  and  surrender.  On  he  plunged 
blindly  down  the  street  toward  the  Luxembourg  Gardens, 
into  the  outer  darkness  where  he  must  lose  himself  away 
from  her — to-night,  to-morrow, — for  all  time. 

He  had  failed.  He  had  trusted  himself  too  far — 
trusted  her  too  far.  Fool  that  he  was  not  to  have  seen 
that  love,  begun  by  trivial  happenings,  had  been  gather- 
ing strength  and  momentum  and  like  an  avalanche  had 
swept  down  and  engulfed  them  both.  In  a  moment  of 
reaction,  of  guilty  triumph,  he  rejoiced,  defiant  of  the 
conscience  that  drove  him  forth,  that  it  was  him  that 
she  loved — not  Harry;  his  lips  that  had  taken  tribute — 
his  ears  that  had  received  her  confessions,  meant  for  them 
alone. 

But  reason  returned  after  awhile  .  .  .  and  with  it  the 
sense  of  his  dishonor.  The  thing  was  over,  definitely. 
There  would  be  scorn  enough  in  her  eyes  for  him  to-mor- 
row, when  he  told  her  all  the  truth.  He  comforted  him- 
self with  that  thought  and  yet  it  brought  him  a  pang 
too,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  Moira  who  was  to  suffer 
most. 

He  seemed  to  be  the  only  person  in  the  gardens,  for 

the  night  was  chill  and  a  thin  mist  of  rain  was  falling. 

From  time  to  time  there  were  footsteps  here  and  there, 

and  the  murmur  of  voices,  and  through  the  turmoil  of 

87 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

his  thoughts  he  was  conscious  of  them  vaguely.  But  they 
meant  nothing  to  him.  He  went  on  into  the  darkness,  his 
head  bowed,  in  the  conflict  of  his  happiness  and  his  re- 
morse, reaching  a  dimly  lighted  spot  near  the  Rue  d'Assas, 
when  he  heard  quick  footsteps  behind  him.  He  turned 
just  in  time  to  dodge  the  blow  of  a  stick  aimed  at  his 
head,  which  fell  heavily  on  his  shoulder.  He  struck  out 
but  another  man  caught  him  around  the  waist,  bearing 
him  to  the  ground.  He  struggled  to  one  knee,  striking 
viciously,  but  they  were  too  many  for  him.  He  got  a 
glimpse  of  an  automatic  pistol  which  flashed  before  his 
eyes  and  then  something  heavy  struck  him  on  the  head. 
The  last  thing  he  noted  before  losing  consciousness  was 
the  pale  face  of  the  man  with  the  automatic.  It  was  his 
brother — Harry. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AWAKENING 

MOIRA  moved  about  in  a  daze,  attempting  in  the 
commonplaces  of  the  daily  routine  to  forget  the 
thought  of  the  revelation  which  she  knew  could 
not  be  long  delayed.     She  had  lain  all  night  on  the  divan 
in  the  studio,  listening  and  waiting  for  the  return  of  the 
soldier,    and    at   last,    toward    daylight,    from    sheer   ex- 
haustion  of  mind   and  body,  had   fallen   asleep.     When 
she  awoke,  her  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  the  room  in 
the  hallway  and  knock.     She  opened  the  door.     The  bed 
had  not  been  occupied. 

Slowly,  thoughtfully,  she  went  back  to  the  studio  and 
the  business  of  preparing  the  coffee — for  herself — and 
for  Harry — when  he  should  arrive.  Her  mind  was  filled 
with  strange  doubts, — not  of  him,  because  she  had  learned 
to  have  a  complete,  a  perfect  faith  in  this  soldier  that 
she  had  married,  who  had  left  New  York  under  a  cloud 
of  uncertainties  and  suspicions  and  had  come  back  to 
her  spiritually  reborn.  The  doubts  in  her  mind  were 
those  that  he  had  purposely  created  in  it,  and  fragments 
of  phrases  that  he  had  uttered  in  their  moments  of  ten- 
derness came  back  to  alarm  and  disturb  her,  because  if 
he  hadn't  thought  it  necessary  to  alarm  and  disturb  her, 
he  would  have  remained  silent  and  permitted  himself  to 
enjoy  with  her  the  hours  that  had  been  theirs  together. 
Yes  .  .  .  there  was  something  that  had  come  to  thrust 
itself  between  them — some  impediment  to  their  union.  She 
smiled  softly  at  the  memory  of  the  restraint  in  his 
caresses,  the  purity  of  his  smile  and  the  gentleness  of  his 
89 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

abnegation.  ...  He  had  underestimated  the  quality  of  her 
new  faith  in  him. 

Was  this  shadow  out  of  the  past?  Perhaps.  But  it 
wouldn't  matter.  Together  they  would  exorcise  it.  Only 
the  future  mattered  now — their  future  together. 

She  stopped  for  a  moment  in  her  work  of  putting  the 
studio  to  rights  and  listened.  She  thought  that  she  heard 
a  step  upon  the  stair.  She  waited  a  while  and  then  went 
to  the  door  and  peered  out.  No  one.  It  was  a  little 
cruel  that  he  had  not  sent  her  a  message — a  note,  a 
petit  bleu  even,  telling  when  she  must  expect  him,  what- 
ever his  appearance  might  bring.  For  this,  she  realized, 
was  the  "to-morrow"  of  which  he  had  spoken  yesterday 
*  .  .  the  day  of  revelations.  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  sing  at  her  work  but  the  effort  was  a  fail- 
ure. A  morbid  fear  of  the  thing  that  was  to  happen,  if 
it  hadn't  already  happened,  obsessed  and  held  her.  Nine 
— ten  o'clock — eleven.  .  .  .  With  a  courage  born  of  des- 
peration she  went  into  her  room  and  put  on  her  hat.  It 
was  insupportable,  the  suspense.  There  were  some  things 
to  buy.  She  must  order  them.  And  leaving  word  with 
Madame  Toupin  that  she  would  return  within  the  hour, 
she  walked  briskly  forth,  breasting  the  keen  air  and  try- 
ing to  smile.  But  even  her  walk  was  a  failure,  and  in  a 
short  while  she  was  back,  eagerly  questioning  Madame 
Toupin.  No,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  had  not  arrived. 
No  doubt  he  was  busy  about  the  ceremony  of  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  medals.  Moira  inquired  and  Madame 
Toupin  showed  her  an  article  in  the  paper  about  the 
honors  to  be  given  both  French  and  American  officers  next 
week  in  the  Place  de  la  Concord.  There  was  his  name, 
"Henry  G.  Horton — Croix  de  Guerre."  Madame  Toupin 
let  her  have  the  paper  and  she  ran  up  to  the  studio,  where 
she  read  it  eagerly,  thrilling  with  pride. 

Of  course  he  had  his  reasons  for  not  coming  to  her 
90 


AWAKENING 


and  telling  her  everything.  She  must  be  patient — her 
faith  in  him  unwavering.  He  would  come  to  her  to-night 
again — and  whatever  he  told  her  was  to  make  no  differ- 
ence in  her  love  and  faith  in  him — whatever  he  told  her — • 

she  swore  it. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Late  that  night  he  came.  She  had  built  a  fire  of  fagots 
against  the  chill  of  the  night  and  was  sitting  in  the  big 
armchair  by  the  hearth  when  she  heard  a  knock  at  the 
studio  door.  With  a  cry  of  welcome  she  rose  and  rushed 
to  greet  him,  throwing  herself  impulsively  into  his  arms. 

"Harry,"  she  gasped  happily,  "at  last!" 

She  couldn't  help  noting  the  slight  movement  of  recoil 
before  her  tenderness.  Then,  bending  his  head, 

"Hello,  Moira,"  he  muttered. 

She  helped  him  off  with  his  overcoat  and  led  him  over 
to  the  fire,  making  him  sit  in  the  big  arm-chair.  He 
obeyed  awkwardly,  as  one  in  a  daze,  his  brows  frowning. 
The  light  was  uncertain,  but  what  she  saw  alarmed  her. 

"Harry!  What  has  happened  to  you?"  she  cried, 
catching  him  by  the  hands  and  holding  them.  "You're 

ill — your  fingers  are  cold — you  look  as  though 

What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing,"  he  murmured  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 
"Nothing  at  all."  But  even  the  smile  was  different,  as 
though  the  muscles  acted  in  obedience  to  an  effort. 

She  had  struck  a  match  to  make  a  light. 

"What — what  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  see  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You 
look  sick.  You  need  medicine." 

"No,"  he  protested.  "I'm  just  tired.  A  drink  of 
whisky  if  you've  got  one " 

She  went  into  Barry  Quinlevin's  room  and  brought 
forth  a  bottle,  a  glass  and  a  pitcher  of  water.  With  a  hand 
that  trembled  a  little,  he  poured  himself  a  drink  and  took 
91 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

it  at  a  draught,  and  then  gave  a  gasp  of  relief.  She 
had  sat  down  near  him  and  was  regarding  him  with  an 
expression  of  intentness  and  eagerness,  though  the  pucker 
at  her  brows  indicated  a  doubt  and  a  fear.  The  gas  light 
was  at  his  back  and  she  could  not  clearly  see  his  face,  but 
there  was  something  strange  about  him  that  she  had 
missed  at  his  first  entrance,  a  brooding  sullenness,  re- 
mote, self-centered,  that  even  the  smile  could  not  temper 
with  sweetness.  And  even  while  she  watched  he  poured 
out  another  glass  of  whisky. 

"What  is  it,  Harry?"  she  asked.     "Tell  me." 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said.  "I'm  all  in.  I've  had  some 
worries.  I'll  be  all  right.' 

"Have  you  had  something  to  eat?" 

"Yes.     I'm  not  hungry." 

His  voice  too  .  .  .  thin,  weary,  somber. 

Now  greatly  alarmed,  she  caught  his  hand  in  both  of 
hers. 

"You  must  tell  me  everything,  Harry.  I  don't  care 
what  it  is — I — I've  got  to  know.  You  told  me  that  you'd 
tell  me  to-day — to-night,  and  now  you  must  keep  your 
promise.  I've  tried  so  hard  not  to  worry  and — and  when 
you  didn't  come  back  to  me  last  night,  I — I  was  really 
frightened " 

"Were  you?"  he  said,  with  a  frown.     "I  was  all  right." 

"I'm  glad.  But  it  was  cruel  of  you  not  to  send  me 
a  message." 

"I  couldn't.  But  I'm  here  now,  Moira.  So  there's  no 
need  worrying  any  more." 

He  put  his  hand  over  hers  and  leaned  toward  lier.  His 
words,  which  last  night  would  have  given  her  happiness, 
seemed  somehow  to  mean  nothing  to  her  to-night.  For 
his  very  presence  in  this  condition  was  a  threat  against 
her  peace  of  mind.  And  his  fingers  might  have  been  wax 
for  all  that  their  touch  meant  to  her. 
92 


AWAKENING 


"You — you're  trying  to  make  thing's  seem  better  than 
they  are,"  she  said  steadily,  wondering  at  her  own  words. 
"I — I'm  not  easily  deceived.  Last  night  I  knew  that 
something  had  come  between  us.  I  know  now  that  it's 
still  between  us,  Harry,  whatever  you  say.'* 

He  turned  away  toward  the  glass  at  his  elbow* 

"No,"  he  murmured,  "that  difficulty — has  been  re- 
moved." 

He  couldn't  repress  the  smile  of  triumph  as  he  took  his 
drink,  and  she  saw  it.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant  smile. 

"Come,"  he  went  on  more  easily,  "aren't  you  glad  to 
see  me?" 

"I — God  knows  whether  I  am  or  not.  Something  has 
happened  to  you — to  me.  .  .  .You've  been  through  some- 
thing terrible — since  yesterday — something  that  has  burnt 
the  soul  of  you.  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  The  touch  of 
your  fingers — your  voice,  they  come  from  a  distance-like, 
with  nothing  of  you  in  them.  Am  I  ill  that  I  should  be 
thinking  of  you  so?  Take  me  in  your  arms,  Harry,  and 
shield  me  from  this  terror  that  you're  not  yourself,  but 
some  one  else." 

He  obeyed,  putting  his  arms  around  her  and  holding 
her  close  to  him.  But.  at  the  touch  of  his  lips  to  hers, 
she  struggled  free  and  faced  him  by  the  hearth,  pale  as 
death.  The  look  of  bewilderment  at  her  brows  had  in- 
tensified into  a  steady  gaze,  almost  of  terror  at  the 
thought  that  had  suddenly  mastered  her.  And  yet  she 
did  not  dare  give  utterance  to  it.;  It  was  so  outlandish, 
so  mad  and  incomprehensible. 

She  saw  the  frown  of  anger,  quickly  masked  in  a  smile 
of  patience  as  she  broke  away  from  him,  and  that  con- 
firmed her  in  her  madness.  She  was  reading  him  keenly 
now  from  top  to  toe,  missing  nothing.  And  the  thought 
that  dominated  her  was  that  the  man  with  whom  she 
had  mated  during  the  past  weeks,  the  man  who  had  passed 
93  / 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

through  the  shadow  of  death,  reborn  in  body  and  spirit, 
the  Harry  that  she  had  recently  learned  to  love — was 
dead ;  and  that  this  man  who  had  come  to  take  his  place — 
this  man — was  what  he  might  have  been  if  God's  grace 
had  not  fallen  on  him.  Madness?  Perhaps.  And  yet 
how  otherwise  would  the  touch  of  his  lips,  which  last 
night  she  had  sought  in  tenderness,  have  been  so  repellent 
to  her?  Harry — her  husband — unregenerate — the  same 
Harry  that.  .  .  . 

She  kept  her  gaze  fixed  upon  him  and  she  saw  his  look 
flicker  and  fade. 

If  this  reality  was  Harry,  her  husband,  then  were  all 
the  weeks  that  had  passed  since  she  found  him  in  the  hos- 
pital merely  a  dream,  was  yesterday  a  dream — last  night? 

"I — I  don't  know — what  is  the  matter,"  she  said  at 
last,  passing  a  hand  across  her  brows.  "I — I  am  not  well, 
perhaps.  But  you — you're  not  the — not  the  same.  I 
know  it.  The  thoughts  that  I  have  of  you  frighten  me." 

He  forced  a  laugh  and  sank  into  his  chair  again,  light- 
ing a  cigarette  with  an  assumption  of  ease. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  only  stood  staring  at  him,  her  deep  blue  eyes  never 
wavering  from  his  face,  which  was  still  averted  from  the 
light.  He  met  that  gaze  once — a  second  time,  and  then 
looked  awaty,  but  still  they  stared  at  him,  wide  like  a 
child's,  but  full  of  a  dawning  wisdom. 

"You — you  are  Harry  Horton — my — my  husband?" 
she  whispered  in  a  kind  of  daze. 

"Well,  rather." 

She  paused  another  long  moment  as  though  on  the 
verge  of  a  difficult  decision  and  then  spoke  searchingly. 

"If  you  are  Harry — my  husband — then  who — who  is 
the  other?" 

Harry  Horton  started.     "The  other ?" 

"The  other — who  was  here  with  me  yesterday,  who  was 
94 


AWAKENING 


ill  in  the  hospital  at  Neuilly,  wounded — the  hero  of  Bois- 
siere wood?" 

"Moira,"  he  said,  rising,  "this  is  serious.  There  has 
been  no  other  here." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  doggedly,  "the  other  has  been  here 
— your  twin "  The  word  seemed  born  of  her  neces- 
sity. "Your  twin,"  she  repeated. 

He  winced  at  the  word  and  she  saw  the  change  in  his 
expression. 

"Tell  me  the  truth  of  this  thing,"  she  went  on  quickly, 
"he  said  yesterday  that  something  was  to  come  between 
us.  It  was  you"  And  then,  as  he  made  no  reply,  "For 
God's  sake,  speak " 

He  turned  away  from  the  light. 

"I'm  your  husband,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

"Show  me  your  wounds,"  she  gasped  suddenly,  reason- 
ing with  singular  directness. 

He  glanced  at  her  once,  then  bent  forward.  There  upon 
the  left  side  of  his  head  in  a  shaved  spot  was  a  cross  of 
adhesive  tape.  She  touched  it  aimlessly  with  her  fingers 
and  then  suddenly,  before  he  could  rise,  with  a  quick  deft 
movement  tore  it  away  from  his  skull.  And  quickly  as 
he  straightened  she  had  seen  enough. 

There  was  no  wound. 

"What's  this  deviltry  ?"  he  muttered,  his  face  an  angry 
red. 

But  the  look  that  he  met  in  her  eyes  pierced  all  sub- 
terfuge. 

"You  have  not  been  wounded,"  she  gasped. 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  fury  as  though  to  strike 
her,  but  she  stood  up  to  him  resolutely  until  the  color 
faded  from  his  face  and  he  straightened  slowly. 

"Well,"  he  muttered  with  a  shrug,  "I  haven't."  And 
then,  folding  his  arms  he  found  her  gaze.  "What  of  it?" 
he  asked  shortly. 

95 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  glanced  down  at  the  slips  of  adhesive  tape  and  then 
let  them  fall  through  her  fingers. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said  coolly,  "that  you've  decided  not 
to  carry  on  the  lie " 

He  laughed  again.  "Well,  it  looks  as  though  it  were 
hardly  worth  while." 

Already  all  her  thoughts  were  beyond  him. 

"Who— who  is  the  other?"  she  asked  at  last,  with  a 
cold  precision  that  might  have  come  from  a  disembodied 
spirit. 

He  waited  a  moment  before  replying  and  then  his  tone 
matched  her  own. 

"I  can  hardly  wonder  at  your  interest  after  the  warmth 
of  your  greeting  when  I  came  in." 

The  shot  told  and  she  colored  painfully. 

"Who — who  is  he?"  she  repeated  with  an  effort. 

He  smiled.  "There's  no  harm  in  your  knowing,  since 
you've  guessed  the  rest.  He's  my  twin  brother,  Jim  Hor- 
ton." 

"Jim,"  she  gasped  below  her  breath. 

"We  met  in  the  confusion  on  the  battlefield,"  he  went 
on.  "I  had  been  shell-shocked  and  he  put  on  my  uniform 
to  lead  my  men " 

"Shell— shock " 

"Yes.  He  took  my  uniform.  It  was  a  fool  proceed- 
ing. When  I  came  to,  everything  was  in  confusion.  He 
would  have  been  courtmartialed  and  shot  if  I  had  turned 
up,  so  I  went  back  to  the  lines  and  came  to  Paris " 

"While  he  won  you  the  Croix  de  Guerre.  And  you're 
going  to  step  into  his  shoes " 

"They're  my  shoes.     It's  not  my  fault " 

"And  he — what's  to  become  of  him?" 

"That's  his  lookout.  He  merely  disappears  from  the 
scene." 

She  leaned  heavily  against  the  mantel  shelf,  breathing 


AWAKENING 


fast.  But  she  had  no  reply,  and  so  he  went  on  unpleas- 
antly. 

"Now,  perhaps  you  would  like  to  explain." 

"I  have  nothing  to  explain." 

"Not  the  joy  in  your  eyes  when  I  came  in?  The  kisses 
you  gave  me  that  you  thought  were  for  him?'* 

"I  ask  no  forgiveness,"  she  said  in  a  hollow  tone. 

"Of  course  you  thought  he  was  your  husband.  And 
he  let  you  think  so." 

"Yes.     He  let  me  think  so,"  she  repeated,  parrot-like. 

And  all  the  while  her  horror  of  her  situation  increased 
— her  anger  at  "the  other"  who  had  dared  to  place  her 
in  this  false  position. 

She  saw  her  husband's  bony  fingers  clasp  the  chair  arm. 

"You  were  easily  deceived,"  he  went  on.  "It's  hardly 
flattering  to  me.  I  would  like  to  know " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  his  question  in  abeyance  before 
the  challenge  in  her  eyes,  aroused  by  the  tone  of  his  voice. 
She  read  his  thought  and  answered  him. 

"He  came  here  from  the  hospital  night  before  last.  He 
wanted  to  go  to  a  pension  but  I  would  not  permit  it " 

"That  was  kind  of  you.  But  I'm  not  blind.  And  your 
kisses  for  him  were  warm  on  your  lips  when  you  greeted 
me." 

She  paled  and  drooped  in  her  shame. 

"What  have  you  to  say  about  that?"  he  went  on 
tensely.  "Do  you  think  that  I'm  the  kind  to  stand  by  idly 
and  see  a  man  take  my  wife's  kisses?" 

"No.  You're  not,"  she  answered  slowly.  "You've  al- 
ready answered  me."  And  then,  with  a  painful  effort, 
"What  have  you  done  with  him?" 

He  sank  into  the  armchair  with  a  laugh.  "With  him? 
Nothing.  He  has  gone.  That's  all." 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"That's  your  privilege.  He  has  gone.  He  thought  he 
97 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

had  gone  about  far  enough.  And  I'm  almost  ready  to 
believe  that  you  agree  with  him." 

"No,"  she  stammered,  pleading  against  her  own  will, 
against  her  outraged  pride.  "There  was  a  reason  for 
what  he  did — an  honorable  reason.  There  must  have 
been." 

"The  marks  of  it  are  not  very  clear  to  me.  If  you 
can  see  anything  honorable  in  trying  to  steal  the  love 
of  one's  brother's  wife " 

He  paused,  for  he  saw  the  danger  signals  flying  in  her 
eyes,  and  tried  to  shrug  his  anger  off.  "What's  the  use? 
I'm  no  fool.  Whether  he  tried  to  win  you  or  not,  it's 
clear  that  neither  of  you  was  over-scrupulous  about  me." 

She  didn't  reply  at  once  and  when  she  did  speak  her 
words  came  slowly  and  with  dignity. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  he  should  have  kept  silent 
about  you.  He  has  done  me  a  hurt — irreparable.  When 
I  visited  him  in  the  hospital,  it  was  you  that  I  visited, 
you,  that  I  went  to  cheer,  to  take  my  place  by  your  side. 
'I  thanked  God  when  I  saw  you  that  you  had  grown  to  be 
— what  you  were,  what  I  had  wanted  you  to  be.  And  I 
loved  you  for  what  you  had  suffered." 

He  started  up  from  his  chair. 

"Moira " 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  insisted,  still  struggling  to  give 
her  thoughts  expression.  "I  want  you  to  understand.  I 
thought  that  it  was  you  who  had  come  back  to  me — as 
I  wished  you  to  come  back — in  honor  and  pride  of  your 
service  of  your  country.  And  instead  of  you  I  find — 
another — with  your  wounds,  your  honors — if  it  was  your 
brother — in  spite  of  the  false  position  he's  placed  me  in — 
I  honor  him  for  those  wounds  as  I  would  have  honored 
you — and  I  honor  him  still  more — because  he  has  thought 
enough  of  his  honor  and  of  mine — to  give  up  everything 
that  he  has  won  and  gone  out  into  the  darkness — alone." 
98 


AWAKENING 


At  this,  Harry  Horton's  fury  relaxed  in  a  laugh.  He 
poured  himself  out  another  drink. 

"You  can  spare  him  these  new  honors." 

She  glanced  at  him  keenly  but  he  was  too  angry  to 
notice. 

"He  went — away — because  he  had  to,"  he  muttered. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.     It  was  getting  too  hot  for  him." 

The  meaning  under  his  words  came  to  her  slowly.  She 
watched  him  for  a  moment  curiously,  leaning  toward  him, 
studying  the  ugly  lines  at  lip  and  brow  that  he  no  longer 
took  pains  to  conceal.  And  then  she  guessed  at  the  truth. 

"What  have  you  done  with  him?"  she  whispered. 

"N— nothing." 

"You  lie."  She  knew  no  fear  of  him  now,  and  leaned 
forward,  clutching  at  his  shoulder.  "You've  dealt  un- 
fairly with  him — you've "  She  halted  in  terror  of 

her  thoughts. 

"He  got  what  he  deserved,"  he  muttered  sullenly. 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  repeated. 

"Put  him  where  he  won't  mess  in  my  affairs  again.  See 
here,  Moira,"  he  caught  her  wrists  and  held  her,  "I'm 
just  about  fed  up  with  this.  I've  been  patient  about  long 
enough.  You're  my  wife.  And  I'm  going  to  keep  you. 
Do  you  think  after  all  I've  suffered  I'm  going  to  stand 
for  this  kind  of  treatment  now?" 

"Let  go  my  wrists — you're  hurting  me " 

"No '      Instead,  he  drew  her  closer  to  him.     "I 

don't  care  about  this  foolishness  with  Jim.  I  think  you 
can  see  that  you've  made  a  fool  of  yourself  and  of  me. 
But  I'm  willing  to  forget  it,  if  you'll  do  the  square  thing. 
I'm  back  here  and  I'm  back  to  stay — and  I'm  going  to 
make  you  love  me  whether  you  want  to  or  not." 

"Let  me  go,  Harry." 

"Kiss  me." 

99 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"No."  She  struggled  in  his  arms,  but  he  only  held  her 
the  more  closely.  "Moira.  I  want  you.  You're  mine. 
You  belong  to  me  by  every  law " 

"No— no." 

But  he  mastered  her,  pressing  her  throat  back  and 
kissing  her  upon  the  lips.  She  lay  quiet  in  his  arms,  weak 
from  the  struggle.  He  took  her  immobility  for  acquies- 
cence and  caught  her  more  tightly  in  his  arms. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  gasped.     "Do  you  hear?" 

A  saner  man  would  have  caught  the  warning  note.  But 
Harry  Horton  was  beyond  warnings.  She  fought  with 
renewed  strength  and  then,  all  else  failing,  struck  him 
full  in  the  face  with  her  clenched  fist. 

His  arms  relaxed  in  astonishment  and  she  sprang  away, 
putting  a  small  table  between  them. 

Breathing  rapidly,  she  saw  him  put  his  fingers  to  his 
cheek  and  then  look  at  them  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"I  see,"  she  heard  him  muttering  to  himself,  "so  that's 
the  way  of  it " 

The  blow  brought  him  to  his  senses,  and  he  stared  at 
her  for  a  moment  as  though  at  a  person  he  had  never 
seen  before.  Her  eyes  burned  like  a  blue  flame  in  the 
pallor  of  her  face  and  the  hand  that  clutched  the  table 
trembled  violently.  And  yet  it  was  not  the  fear  of  him 
that  made  her  tremble,  but  the  fear  of  herself  and  of 
the  sudden  dreadful  awakening  at  the  edge  of  the  chasm, 
that  yawned  between  them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THREATS 

THE  silence  seemed  endless  and  yet  she  dared  not 
trust  herself  to  speak.     Her  throat  closed  and  it 
seemed  that  the  blood  from  her  heart  was  drown- 
ing her.     And  yet  she  watched  him  tensely,  aware  of  the 
crisis,  aware  too  of  the  revelations  that  seemed  to  have 
laid  her  heart  bare  to  all  the  world. 

Her  husband  reached  the  large  table  and  poured  out 
what  remained  of  the  whisky.  Then  she  heard  his  laugh 
again,  and  saw  him  leering  at  her  over  his  glass. 

"Lucky  dog,  I  am.  Pretty  little  devil  to  come  home  to. 
Love  tap !"  He  shrugged  and  raised  his  glass.  "To  our 
better  acquaintance!" 

She  made  no  sound,  but  while  her  eyes  watched,  her 
mind  was  working  rapidly.  His  air  was  braggart,  but 
she  could  see  that  he  wasn't  any  too  sure  of  himself.  He 
had  thought  to  come  here  and  by  the  ruse  of  the  adhesive 
plaster  merge  his  identity  into  that  of  his  brother  Jim. 
The  lapse  of  time  since  she  had  seen  him  and  the  illness 
had  deceived  her  in  the  hospital.  And  so  he  had  figured  on 
the  remarkable  resemblance  to  his  brother  to  help  him 
carry  off  this  situation  with  a  careless  hand.  But  he 
hadn't  reckoned  with  the  alertness  of  her  woman's  intui- 
tions, or — God  help  her — the  tenderness  of  yesterday, 
which  held  the  image  of  the  brother  so  close  to  her  heart. 

Something  of  what  was  passing  in  her  mind  seemed  to 
come  to  him. 

"So  you've  fallen  in  love  with  my  pretty  brother?'*  he 
muttered. 

101 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"No." 

"Complaisant  husband — mart  complaisant.  You  wanted 
Jim  to  take  you  in  his  arms — and  you  only  had  me.  You 
don't  care  for  my  kisses.  Why  not?  We're  just  alike — • 
as  like  as  two  peas  in  a  pod.  What's  the  difference? 
Come  now.  Tell  me.  I'll  be  a  good  sport." 

"We — we've  got  to  come  to  an  understanding "  she 

gasped  at  last  desperately. 

"Exactly — an  understanding.  That's  what  I'm  getting 

at "  he  laughed  and  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  lay 

figure.  "Oh,  don't  be  disturbed.  I'm  not  going  to  try 
to  kiss  you  again.  It's  too  dangerous." 

She  watched  him  intently  while  he  took  out  a  package 
of  cigarettes  and  lighted  one.  And  then,  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand,  "An  understanding — by  all  means.  Fire 
away.'* 

"It  isn't  necessary  to  go  into  the  past,  except  to  say 
what  you  know  already — that  our  marriage  was  a  hor- 
rible mistake.  But  we  did  have  an  understanding  then — 
that  you  were  to  wait — that  you  were  to — to  make  good 
— and  that  I  was  to  try  to — to  care  for  you." 

"Quite  so.     And  we've  both  failed?" 

"Thanks.  We— we  have  both  failed,"  she  repeated. 
"I  can't  say  I  ever  really  believed  we  should  succeed  un- 
til  " 

"Until  you  went  to  the  hospital." 

She  bent  her  head.  "The  main  thing  is,"  she  went  on 
more  evenly  as  she  gathered  courage,  "that  whatever  my 
hopes  were  for  you,  now  at  least  you've  forfeited  all  claim 
to  consideration." 

"Why?  Because  I  take  a  fancy  to  my  own  uniform — 
my  own  personality?" 

"Because  you "  she  paused  to  catch  her  breath, 

"because  you've  stooped  to  something — something  un- 
worthy— something  vile  and  terrible,  perhaps — God 
102 


THREATS 


knows,  to  get  rid  of  a  man — your  own  brother, — who  did 
you  a  service;  and  because  you'll  dare  to  receive  honors 
that  don't  belong  to  you."  And  then,  as  he  started  up, 
"One  moment.  I  don't  know  what  happened  on  the  battle- 
field. If  you  were  injured,  it  was  a  glorious — foolish 
thing  Jim  Horton  did  for  you.  But  whatever  he  did  and 
whatever  his  motive,  it  deserves  something  of  you — some- 
thing different  from  what  you've  confessed.  Tell  me  what 
you  have  done  with  him  and  I'll  try  to  believe  you." 

"He's  quit,  I  told  you,"  he  protested.  "There  wasn't 
anything  else  for  him " 

"Where  is  he?" 

"What  does  it  matter?  He's  out  of  your  life — out  of 
mine." 

"No — not  out  of  your  life "  she  paused. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Merely  that  the  truth  of  this  thing  must  be  told." 

"Impossible.  It  would  ruin  us  both." 

She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  relief. 

"Tell  me  where  he  is." 

"He's   safe " 

She  deliberated  a  moment. 

"You've  got  to  prove  it  to  me.  He  said  he  was  coming 
back  to  the  studio  to-day.  Instead,  you  came — in  the 
uniform  he  wore.  He  didn't  give  it  to  you  willingly " 

"Yes,"  he  lied  sullenly.  "He  gave  it  to  me.  There 
wasn't  anything  else  to  do  when  I  turned  up.  He  realized 
he  couldn't  stay  here — with  you."  And  then,  "Oh,  he 
was  square  enough  about  it." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  He  didn't  ring  true.  She  had 
almost  forgotten,  as  he  had,  what  he  had  said  in  the  fury 
of  his  jealousy.  She  was  aware  that  he  had  risen  un- 
steadily from  his  chair  and  was  approaching  her. 

"So  here,  Moira,"  he  said  in  an  ingratiating  tone.  "I'm 
not  a  bad  sort — really  I'm  not.  I — I  was  out  of  my 
103 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

head  awhile  ago — the  way  you  came  up  to  me,  thinking 
I  was  him.  I  guess  I  wanted  to  hurt  you — the  way  you 
had  hurt  me.  I'm  sorry.  I  won't  touch  your  fingers  even, 
if  you  don't  want  me  to.  I  was  a  rotter  to  try  to  kiss 
you.  I  ought  to  have  known  you  didn't  want  me  to — 
when  I — I  had  had  one  or  two  too  many.  I've  been 
worried  too — devilish  worried  about  the  whole  thing.  Let's 
forget  it  and  talk  the  thing  over  sensibly.  There  may  be 
a  way  out.  I  don't  want  any  honors  that  don't  belong 
to  me,  but  I  don't  want  to  be  dismissed  from  the  service, 
either,  or  shot — on  Jim's  account.  But  we've  got  to  keep 
this  thing  quiet.'* 

She  understood  his  drift.  The  facts  in  her  possession 
made  her  dangerous. 

"It  can't  be  kept  quiet,  so  long  as  Jim  Horton  is  in 
danger." 

"Who  said  he  was  in  danger?  I  said  he'd  quit " 

"But  you  lied.  He  hasn't  quit.  He  isn't  the  quitting 
kind.  He  was  to  have  come  to  me  to-day,  and  told  me  the 
truth — I  didn't  know  what  it  all  meant  then.  But  I  do 
now.  He  has  got  to  have  his  chance." 

She  saw  him  glare  at  her  somberly. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Take  me  to  him — to-night." 

"That's  impossible.     I  couldn't  find  him." 

"Yes.  You  can  find  him.  Or  he  would  have  found 
me." 

He  smeared  out  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  in  a  receiver 
and  rose,  his  face  livid. 

"You  seem  very  sure  of  him — and  of  yourself.  And 
if  I  don't  find  him  for  you,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  shall  tell  what  I  know  to  the  proper  authorities.'* 

He  stood  for  a  moment  balked  and  then  before  she  knew 
what  he  was  about  he  stumbled  to  the  studio  door  and 
turning  the  key  in  the  lock  put  it  in  his  pocket.  She  was 
104 


THREATS 


frightened  by  the  significance  of  the  action,  and  ran 
quickly  toward  the  door  of  her  own  room.  He  turned  and 
moved  to  intercept  her  but  awkwardly  and  she  slammed 
the  door  in  his  face,  catching  the  bolt  on  the  inside. 

She  was  frightened  now,  desperately  frightened,  but 
resolved  to  escape  and  tell  \vhat  she  knew.  The  brother — 
Jim — was  in  danger — a  prisoner  somewhere — otherwise 
he  would  have  come  to  her.  Much  as  his  silence  had  in- 
jured her,  deeply  as  her  pride  was  hurt  at  the  position 
in  which  he  had  placed  her,  she  knew  now  that  he  had 
intended  to  tell  the  truth  from  his  own  lips  and  warn  her 
of  Harry's  return  before  he  left  her  and  went  away  alone. 
He  loved  her.  ...  It  was  his  love  that  had  sought  to 
spare  her  the  humiliation  of  this  very  knowledge  that  had 
come  to  her.  Shell-shock !  There  was  another  reason  for 
the  substitution.  What?  But  whatever  it  was,  there 
seemed  little  difficulty  in  choosing  between  them.  The 
other — Jim — the  man  she  loved  .  .  .  she  acknowledged 
it  in  every  impulse  .  .  .  would  have  come  to  her.  She 
had  to  find  him.  Just  what  she  meant  to  do  she  didn't 
know,  except  to  get  away  from  Harry.  He  was  ham- 
mering on  the  door  now — pleading  with  her.  But  she 
didn't  answer.  Catching  up  her  hat  and  a  heavy  coat, 
she  went  quietly  to  her  own  door  into  the  hall,  and,  while 
he  still  hammered  and  pleaded,  fled  quickly  down  the 
stairs  and  into  the  lodge  of  the  concierge. 

Madame  Toupin,  aroused  suddenly  from  her  doze, 
started  up  in  amazement. 

"Madame  Horton,  what  is  it?"  she  asked  in  French. 

"It  is  a  game  we  play,  Madame  Toupin.  You  shall 
hide  me  in  your  closet.  And  when  Monsieur  le  Lieuten- 
ant comes  you  shall  say  that  I  have  run  out  into  the 
street.  You  understand?" 

"Parfaitement,  Madame.  Ah,  les  jeux  d' amour.  En- 
105 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

trez  vite."  And  she  opened  the  door  of  the  closet  which 
Moira  entered  quickly. 

Then  Madame  Toupin  with  a  smile  of  wisdom  com- 
posed herself  to  read  her  paper.  And  in  a  moment  a 
clatter  of  boots  upon  the  stairway  and  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps upon  the  paving  of  the  courtyard  announced  the 
approach  of  the  officer.  Through  a  crack  in  the  door 
Moira  listened  to  the  conversation  which  Madame  con- 
ducted with  her  amiable  smile,  and  presently  Harry  Hor- 
ton  withdrew  frowning  and  went  out  hurriedly  into -the 
Rue  de  Tavennes. 

But  while  she  stood  upright  in  the  closet  listening, 
Moira  had  formulated  a  plan.  It  was  clear  from  the 
tone  of  Harry's  voice  and  his  haste  to  go  that  her  es- 
cape had  frightened  him.  For  his  judgment  was  not 
amiss  when  he  decided  that  Moira  was  fully  capable  of 
carrying  out  her  threat  to  tell  the  whole  story  to  the 
military  authorities.  But  instead  of  clinging  to  her 
original  intention,  a  new  idea  had  come  to  her. 

If  she  followed  him,  she  could  perhaps  get  a  clue  to 
the  mystery  of  Jim  Horton's  disappearance.  She 
couldn't  understand  yet — couldn't  make  herself  believe 
that  this  man  that  she  had  married  could  be  capable  of 
a  thing  so  vile.  But  the  evidence — his  own  words  stam- 
mered in  his  fury,  were  damning.  The  familiar  formulas 
seemed  to  have  no  bearing  now.  The  war  had  made  men 
demi-gods  or  devils  and  Harry.  ...  It  did  not  seem  very 
difficult  to  decide  to-night  what  Harry  was. 

She  slipped  on  her  heavy  coat  and  the  hat  she  had 
brought  and  with  a  word  of  explanation  and  caution  to 
Madame  Toupin,  she  went  out  into  the  street.  Far  down 
upon  the  opposite  sidewalk  she  saw  a  tall  figure  striding 
away  into  the  darkness.  She  followed,  keeping  at  a  dis- 
tance, her  coat  collar  turned  up  and  her  broad-brimmed 
hat  pushed  well  down  over  her  eyes.  She  hurried  along, 
106 


THREATS 


keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
trembling  with  the  excitement  of  her  venture  and  wonder- 
ing what  was  to  be  its  outcome,  but  sure  from  his  gait 
that  the  situation  she  had  created  had  developed  in  Harry 
Horton's  hazy  brain  some  definite  plan  of  action.  She 
noticed  too  that  he  no  longer  swayed  or  stumbled  and 
that  he  glanced  furtively  to  left  and  right  at  the  street 
corners,  peering  back  toward  her  from  time  to  time.  But 
she  matched  her  wits  to  his,  crouching  into  corners  as  he 
turned  and  then  running  forward  breathlessly  in  the  dark 
places,  keeping  him  in  sight.  He  turned  into  the  narrow 
reaches  of  the  Rue  de  Monsieur  le  Prince,  past  the  Lycee 
and  the  Ecole  de  Medicine,  and  crossed  the  Boulevard 
St.  Germain  into  the  network  of  small  streets  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  river,  twisting  and  turning  in  a  way  which 
confirmed  her  belief  in  the  dishonesty  of  his  purposes.  It 
was  now  long  after  midnight,  and  the  streets  into  which 
they  moved  were  quiet  and  almost  deserted.  From  the  di- 
rection of  the  Boule'  Miche  came  a  rumble  of  vehicles,  the 
glare  of  lights,  the  distant  grunt  of  an  automobile-horn, 
the  clatter  of  a  cab  horse  down  an  echoing  street.  The 
neighborhood  was  unfamiliar  to  her,  a  part  of  old  Paris 
near  the  Isle  de  la  Cite,  where  the  houses,  relics  of  an- 
tiquity, were  huddled  into  ghostly  groups,  clinging  to  one 
another,  illumined  fitfully  by  murky  bracket-lamps  which 
only  served  to  make  their  grim  fa9ades  more  somber  and 
fantastic.  Dark  shapes  emerged  from  darker  shadows 
and  leered  at  her — evil  figures,  bent  and  bedraggled,  or 
painted  and  bedizened,  the  foul  night-creatures  of  the 
city,  the  scavengers,  the  female  birds  of  prey,  the  night- 
hawks,  the  lepers.  Twice  she  was  accosted,  once  by  a 
vile  hag  that  clutched  at  her  arm  with  skinny  talons, 
and  again  by  a  man  who  tried  to  bar  her  way,  but  with 
a  strength  born  of  her  desperation  she  thrust  him  aside 
107 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

and  ran  on,  her  gaze  seeking  the  tall  figure  that  she  fol- 
lowed. 

More  than  once  she  lost  sight  of  him  as  he  plunged 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  maze  and  she  paused  trembling 
in  the  shadows,  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn,  but  gath- 
ering courage  again  hurried  on  to  catch  the  glint  of  a 
street  light  on  his  brown  overcoat  in  the  distance. 

Above  the  roofs,  almost  hanging  over  her,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  grim  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  the  sentinels 
of  a  thousand  years  of  time,  and  the  sight  of  them  gave 
her  courage  in  this  region  of  despair.  With  an  effort 
she  threw  off  her  terror  of  the  evil  that  seemed  to  hang  in 
every  shadow,  trying  to  remember  that  this  was  Paris, 
her  Paris,  with  familiar  places  close  at  hand;  and  that 
this  man  whom  she  followed  was  no  creature  of  the  middle 
ages,  but  Harry,  her  husband;  that  this  was  the  Twen- 
tieth Century,  and  that  here  was  the  very  heart  of  the 
civilization  of  the  world.  But  the  facts  that  had  come  to 
her  were  amazing,  and  Harry's  confessions  damnable.  It 
was  clear  that  his  position  was  desperate  and  his  inten- 
tions none  less  so.  Here  somewhere,  hidden,  she  believed, 
Jim  Horton  lay,  helpless  and  injured,  if  not  by  his 
brother's  hand  by  that  of  some  one  in  his  employ.  It  was 
the  only  answer  to  the  riddle  of  his  failure  to  come  back 
to  her.  She  must  find  him — before  they  took  him  away — 
before  they  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  terrified  her  again.  Harry 
wouldn't  dare.  He  was  a  coward  at  heart.  She  knew  it 
now.  Besides,  there  must  be  some  spark  of  decency  and 
manhood  left  to  restrain  him  from  so  desperate,  so  ter- 
rible an  expedient  to  save  himself. 

She  crept  cautiously  to  the  corner  of  a  small  street 
into  which  Harry  Horton  had  turned.  It  was  scarcely 
more  than  an  alley-way — a  vestige  of  the  old  city,  hedged 
in  by  squat  stone  houses  with  peaked  roofs,  deserted  it 
seemed  and  unoccupied.  Beyond  she  could  see  the  Quai, 
108 


THREATS 

the  loom  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  and  Notre  Dame.  The  house 
at  which  he  had  stopped  was  but  a  few  yards  from  the 
river  front.  She  stole  into  the  blackness  of  an  angle  of 
wall  and  watched.  He  was  knocking  upon  the  door — • 
three  quick  taps  followed  by  two  slower  ones.  For  awhile 
he  waited  impatiently  and  then,  as  no  one  answered  the 
summons,  he  tried  the  window  and  then  started  up  a  small 
passage  at  the  side  not  twenty  feet  from  where  she 
crouched. 

Her  pulses  were  throbbing  violently,  but  the  terror  of 
her  surroundings  had  passed.  And  she  tried  to  convince 
herself  that  she  did  not  fear  Harry.  .  .  .  And  yet  she 
hesitated  to  confront  him,  fascinated  by  her  discovery. 
.  .  .  The  brother — Jim — was  here — she  was  as  sure  of 
it  as  though  she  had  seen  him.  She  knew  that  she  must 
intercede  in  some  way,  but  she  was  very  helpless.  How 
many  were  there  in  this  house?  And  if  she  revealed  her- 
self, would  not  the  warning  give  them  time  to  carry  out 
whatever  plan  they  had  in  mind?  And  so  she  crouched 
watching,  breathless  and  uncertain. 

She  saw  him  go  back  to  the  door  and  repeat  the  knock 
more  loudly,  cursing  under  his  breath  and  calling  a  name 
at  the  key-hole. 

"Tricot!"  he  called.    "Tricot!    Tricot!" 

And  in  a  moment  she  heard  a  sound  at  the  door,  which 
was  opened  a  few  inches. 

"C'est  moi,  Tricot,"  she  heard  Harry  say,  and  then  the 
door  was  opened  wide,  giving  her  a  glimpse  of  a  short 
man  with  tousled  hair  and  a  diabolic  face,  holding  a  lan- 
tern. 

"Oh,  Monsieur "  growled  the  man  with  the  lantern, 

stepping  aside  as  Harry  Horton  entered.  And  just  as 
Moira  sprang  up,  her  husband's  name  on  her  lips,  the 
door  was  closed  and  bolted.  She  ran  to  it  and  then  paused 
in  uncertainty,  trying  to  plan  what  it  was  best  to  do. 
109 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  felt  very  small,  very  helpless,  for  the  sight  of  the 
villainous  looking  man  with  the  lantern  frightened  her 
terribly.  He  seemed  to  typify  all  the  evil  in  all  the  world 
— to  explain  in  a  glimpse  all  that  was  sinister  and  ter- 
rifying in  the  disappearance  of  Jim  Horton.  An  ugly 
creature  of  the  world  of  underground,  an  apache!  There 
were  others  like  him  here.  And  Harry.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Her  thoughts  seemed  to 
clear,  her  courage  to  return  as  she  cautiously  returned 
by  the  way  that  she  had  come — out  into  the  wider  street, 
up  which  she  hurried,  turning  in  the  direction  of  the 
Boule*  Miclie.  Her  one  idea  now  was  to  find  a  policeman, 
— any  one  with  a  vestige  of  authority.  Men  she  met  but 
she  shrank  away  from  them  as  she  saw  what  they  were  and 
what  they  thought  she  was.  Ten — fifteen  minutes  of 
rapid  searching  without  result  and  she  turned  toward 
the  Quai  and,  failing  there,  over  the  Petit  Pont  to  the 
Island  and  the  Prefecture  de  Police.  It  was  curious  that 
she  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  The  buildings  were 
dark  but  she  found  at  last  a  man  in  uniform  to  whom 
excitedly  she  told  her  story.  He  listened  with  madden- 
ing politeness  and  at  last  took  her  to  an  office  where 
several  other  men  in  uniform  were  sitting  around  a  stove. 
More  alarmed  than  ever  at  the  passage  of  time,  she  told 
her  story  again.  Here  she  seemed  to  make  some  impres- 
sion at  last,  for  an  older  man,  who  sat  at  a  desk,  finally 
aroused  himself  and  gave  some  orders.  And  in  a  few 
moments  with  two  of  the  policemen  she  was  leading  the 
way  back  to  the  Quai  St.  Michel.  She  was  almost  run- 
ning now  in  her  eagerness  so  that  the  men  had  to  take 
their  longest  strides  to  keep  up  with  her,  but  more  than 
ten  minutes  had  already  passed,  it  seemed  an  eternity  to 
Moira,  and  there  was  still  some  distance  to  go. 

"What  was  the  name  this  man  spoke  at  the  door?" 
asked  one  of  the  policemen. 

110 


THEE  ATS 

She  told  him. 

"Ah,  Tricot !  Parbleu!  I  think  perhaps,  Mademoi- 
selle, that  there  may  be  some  reason  in  your  anxiety." 

"You  know ?" 

"An  apache  of  the  old  regime,  Mademoiselle.  We  would 
do  well  to  find  him." 

And  so,  explaining-  her  fears,  but  not  yet  revealing  all 
the  reasons  for  them,  she  led  the  way  down  the  streets  by 
which  she  had  come  and  to  the  house  which  Harry  Horton 
had  entered. 

The  older  man  knocked  loudly  upon  the  door.  There 
was  no  response.  Again.  Silence.  The  other  man  went 
up  the  alley  way  on  the  side  and  called  to  them.  There 
was  a  shutter  and  a  window  open.  Without  hesitation, 
he  drew  a  weapon  and  crawled  over  the  sill,  the  other 
man  following,  leaving  Moira  alone.  She  listened,  as  they 
moved  about  inside,  saw  the  glint  of  an  electric  torch 
and  then  heard  the  bolts  of  the  door  shot  back  and  the 
police  officer  calling  to  her. 

"Enter,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  when  she  had  come 
around.  "You  are  sure  that  this  is  the  house?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"There  is  no  one  here.  The  house  is  deserted.  It  is  a 
street  of  deserted  houses." 

"That  is  impossible "  she  stammered.  "With  my 

own  eyes,  less  than  an  hour  ago,  this  Tricot  met  the  other 
at  the  door." 

"Allans!  We  will  search  a  little  further,  then." 

She  followed  them  up  the  rickety  stairway  and  then 
they  found  evidences  of  recent  occupation — two  pallets 
of  straw — some  food — a  bottle  containing  absinthe. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  are  right.  This  bottle  is  not  yet 
empty.  There's  something  suspicious  here." 

And  now  moving  with  more  rapidity  they  explored  the 
house  thoroughly,  descending  at  last  into  the  cellar, 
111 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

with  weapons  drawn,  Moira,  half-hoping,  half-fearing, 
following  just  behind  them,  her  gaze  searching  the  shad- 
ows. The  place  smelled  of  the  earth  and  the  walls  were 
damp  to  the  touch,  but  a  quick  examination  with  the  torch 
showed  the  marks  of  many  foot-prints  in  the  earthen 
floor.  The  astonishing  feature  of  the  cellar  was  its  size, 
for  it  seemed  to  extend  under  two  houses,  and  its  vaulted 
ceiling  of  rough  stone  of  great  antiquity  was  upheld  by 
huge  piers,  that  might  at  one  time  have  supported  the 
walls  of  a  great  edifice.  At  first  they  could  make  out 
nothing  but  a  litter  of  papers,  bottles  and  packing  cases, 
but  as  the  torch  of  the  police  officer  searched  the  shadows 
in  a  distant  corner,  they  heard  his  exclamation  of  as- 
tonishment. There  was  another  pallet  of  straw  here 
covered  with  rags  and  quite  distinctly  there  came  to  their 
nostrils  the  odor  of  chloroform.  Moira  peering  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  man  with  the  light  saw  him  bend  over 
and  pick  up  a  rag  and  examine  it  carefully.  There  were 
dark  stains  upon  it.  And  then  with  another  exclamation 
he  picked  up  some  pieces  of  rope. 

"Some  one  lay  here  but  a  short  while  ago,"  he  muttered 
positively,  "tied  hand  and  foot.  The  bed  is  still  warm." 

"They  can't  have  gone  far  then " 

"But  the  door  was  bolted  on  the  inside * 

"The  window " 

"There  would  hardly  have  been  time,  is  it  not  so, 
Mademoiselle?" 

"I  don't  know,"  whispered  Moira  in  dismay.  "Is  there 
no  outlet  to  this  place?  There  must  be.  The  light, 
Monsieur — yonder,  in  the  corners  beyond  the  stone-work 
» 

The  man  with  the  torch,  his  professional  instincts  now 

thoroughly  alive,  obeyed.     They  sounded  the  walls,  first 

one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  coming  at  last,  in  the 

further  corner,  toward  the  river,  upon  a  stone  arch  over 

112 


THREATS 


some  steps  leading  into  a  dark  opening.  The  man  who 
held  the  light  suddenly  extinguished  it  and  a  warning 
sound  came  from  his  lips. 

"Listen,"  he  whispered. 

Scarcely  able  to  breathe,  Moira  obeyed.  From  the 
passage-way,  at  a  distance,  there  came  the  sounds  of 
voices. 

"Come,  follow  me,  Dupuy!  Mademoiselle  had  better 
remain." 

And  with  that,  turning  his  light  into  the  dark  hole,  he 
descended,  the  other  following.  But  the  thought  of  remain- 
ing alone  in  this  terrible  house  frightened  her  and  she 
clutched  at  the  hand  of  the  second  policeman. 

"I  dare  not  stay  here,  Monsieur.    I  must  go  with  you." 

"Bien.    But  I  warn  you  it  may  be  dangerous." 

And  yet  what  could  be  more  dangerous  than  remaining 
in  the  cellar  of  the  apache,  Tricot?  With  shaking  limbs 
she  followed  down  the  passage,  stumbling  and  clinging  to 
the  shoulder  of  the  gallant  policeman.  The  man  who  led 
them  disappeared  beyond  a  turn  in  the  passage,  but  they 
reached  it  and  as  they  turned  the  corner  felt  the  chill  of 
the  night  air  beating  in  their  faces.  And  in  a  moment 
they  came  out  on  the  shore  of  the  river  near  a  boat 
landing. 

"Tonnerre  de  Dieu!"  shouted  the  man  with  the  light, 
and  started  running  toward  the  steps  that  led  to  the  Quai 
above.  The  other  had  reached  the  boat  landing  and  stared 
for  a  moment  down  into  the  dark  mists  above  the  river. 
Then  he  ran  up  the  steps  after  his  companion. 

Frightened  and  mystified,  Moira  followed  up  the  steps 
where  after  a  moment  the  two  men  joined  her. 

"We  have  missed  them.    We  were  too  late " 

"But  the  captive — the  prisoner,"  pleaded  Moira,  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension. 

113 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"That's  the  point — the  prisoner,"  said  the  younger 
man.  "Wait  a  moment,  Mademoiselle." 

And  he  ran  down  the  steps  to  the  boat  landing  again, 
peering  eagerly  down  the  stream.  Already  far  away, 
merely  a  blotch  in  the  shadows  beyond  the  Pont  Neuf, 
there  was  a  boat  at  the  Quai  du  Louvre. 

"Vite,  Dupuy.     There  may  be  yet  time." 

And  the  two  of  them  started  running  toward  the  distant 
bridge,  leaving  Moira  to  follow  as  fast  as  she  could. 

When  Moira  reached  them  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  breathless  and  almost  dead  of  apprehension,  they 
were  questioning  a  man  on  the  Quai  du  Louvre.  He 
reported  that  a  man  had  attempted  suicide  by  drowning 
and  that  a  woman  had  saved  him  just  as  he  was  about  to 
leap  into  the  water.  She  herself  had  asked  his  assistance 
and  together  they  had  hailed  a  passing  fiacre  in  which 
the  woman  had  driven  away. 

"Did  you  notice  anything  extraordinary  about  the 
rescued  man?"  questioned  Dupuy. 

"Nothing,  except  that  he  was  very  pale.  Also  that 
there  was  an  odor  of  chloroform  on  his  clothing." 

"Chloroform!    Are  you  sure?" 

The  man  shrugged.    "You  may  smell  for  yourself." 

And  he  extended  a  hand  and  arm  upon  which  the  odor 
was  unmistakable. 

She  heard  the  officer  take  the  address  of  the  witness 
and  then  turn  to  her. 

"Mademoiselle  is  no  doubt  weary.  There  is  nothing 
more  that  can  be  done  to-night.  If  you  will  permit  me  to 
conduct  you  home." 

A  woman?     Who? 

Moira  nodded  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"A  fiacre,  Monsieur,  if  you  please,"  she  stammered. 
"I — I  am  very  tired." 

114 


CHAPTER  IX 
PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

AS  Monsieur  Valcourt,  the  sculptor,  had  said, 
Piquette  Morin  was  a  gawwne.  She  liked  the  warm 
nest  in  the  Boulevard  Clichy,  with  which  the  Due 
de  Vautrin  had  provided  her,  because  it  satisfied  a  crav- 
ing for  the  creature  comforts  which  she  had  been  so  long 
denied,  and  because  it  filled  the  hearts  of  other  young 
women  of  her  acquaintance  with  envy.  But  she  was  not 
happy.  After  all  was  she  not  young  and  had  she  not  her 
life  to  live? 

It  was  enough  indeed  to  have  grown  in  a  few  short 
years  from  a  seller  of  flowers  and  a  model  for  the  figure 
into  a  lady  of  fashion,  but  her  heart  was  still  in  the 
Rive  Gauche  and  there  she  went  when  she  pleased,  search- 
ing out  her  old  haunts,  and  the  companions  of  her  days 
of  want,  with  whom  she  could  throw  off  the  restraint  of 
her  gilded  cage  and  laugh  with  an  open  throat  at  the 
ancient  jests  and  dance  her  way  again  into  happiness. 
Life  she  loved,  all  shades  of  it,  from  the  somber  in  which 
she  had  been  born  to  the  brilliant  artificial  high  lights 
of  cafe  and  restaurant.  All  sorts  of  people  she  knew— 
cochers,  bandits,  dancers,  poet-singers,  satirists,  artists, 
journalists,  and  she  rejoiced  in  them  for  what  they  taught 
her  of  the  grande  trie. 

Quite  unhampered  by  morals  of  any  sort,  trusting 
entirely  to  her  impulses,  which  were  often  good,  the  crea- 
ture of  her  birth  and  surroundings,  she  was  a  pupil  in 
the  school  of  the  world,  speaking,  after  a  fashion,  three 
languages.  She  discovered  that  she  had  a  brain,  and 
115 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST        ' 

the  war  had  made  her  think.  Without  the  help  of  the 
Americans,  France  must  fall,  and  so  when  they  came  she 
rejoiced  in  their  splendid  soldierly  appearance  and  the 
promise  they  gave  of  rescue  and  help  for  France.  She 
met  Harry  Horton  in  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon.  He  was 
quite  drunk  and  didn't  seem  to  have  any  Hotel,  so  she 
took  him  to  the  Boulevard  Clichy  in  a  fiacre  and  put  him 
to  bed.  According  to  her  own  lights,  it  was  the  only 
natural,  the  only  decent  thing  for  her  to  do. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Harry  Horton  found  himself,  to 
his  surprise,  on  excellent  terms  with  a  friend  of  the  Due 
de  Vautrin,  about  whom  Barry  Quinlevin  had  been  writing 
him,  the  source  of  the  Irishman's  income.  In  a  reckless 
moment  he  confided  to  Piquette  Barry  Quinlevin's  secret. 
And  as  the  Due  de  Vautrin  had  provoked  her  that  after- 
noon by  refusing  her  the  money  for  a  hat  that  she  parti- 
cularly admired,  she  turned  against  her  patron,  entering 
with  interest  into  a  plan  which  eventually  seemed  to 
promise  much.  That  she  repented  of  her  disloyalty  the 
next  day  when  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  relented  was  a  dis- 
appointment to  Harry  Horton,  who  saw  a  way  in  which 
she  could  be  useful  to  him.  Also,  Harry  Horton  was  sure 
that  he  had  talked  too  much,  for  it  was  hardly  safe  to 
make  a  confidante  of  a  weathervane. 

When  Harry  Horton  left  Paris  to  join  his  regiment, 
Piquette  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  and  in  a  few  days 
he  was  only  a  memory.  He  had  been  her  bel  ami,  but 
.  .  .  enfin,  even  in  the  Quartier,  one  got  drunk  like 
a  gentleman. 

The  meeting  in  the  restaurant  of  Leon  Javet  came 
at  an  opportune  moment.  The  Due  had  again  developed 
a  habit  of  meticulous  inquiry ;  also,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
had  reduced  her  allowance.  The  familiar  figure  in  brown 
was  pleasing  after  the  day  of  labor  in  the  studio  of 
Monsieur  Valcourt.  He  represented  a  part  of  life  that 
116 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

she  could  not  taste — and  this  very  morning  she  had  read 
of  him  in  the  bulletins  as  the  hero  of  Boissiere  wood.  And 
so  she  had  welcomed  him  in  her  joyous  way,  sure,  in  spite 
of  his  deficiencies,  that  their  friendship  had  been  no 
mistake.  A  hero.  Saperlotte!  Of  course  she  was  glad 
to  see  him. 

But  the  reserve  in  his  manner  had  mystified  her.  He 
was  like  another  man.  He  was  quieter,  finer,  gentler  and 
yet  very  brave  and  strong.  A  little  triste,  perhaps,  but 
more  deep,  more  interesting,  and  touched  with  the  dignity 
of  one  who  faces  death  for  a  noble  purpose.  But  Piquette 
had  not  lived  in  the  streets  of  Paris  all  these  years  for 
nothing.  A  few  months  of  warfare  would  not  change 
a  man's  soul.  What  was  this  strangeness?  What  had 
come  over  him?  He  had  packed  her  home  in  a  fiacre,  just 
when  she  was  becoming  most  interested  in  this  extraor- 
dinary transformation.  She  bad  never  before  suffered 
from  pique,  and  it  annoyed  her  that  he  shouldn't  have 
been  more  eager  to  resume  their  ancient  fellowship.  Who 
was  this  unshaven  fellow  with  the  slouch  hat  and  worn 
clothing  who  had  so  great  a  claim  upon  his  attention? 
His  figure  too  had  a  familiar  look.  His  manner  had  been 
urgent — threatening  even,  and  Harry  had  obeyed  the 
summons,  banishing  her,  Piquette,  to  the  outer  darkness 
of  the  Boulevard  Clichy. 

And  he  had  not  written  her  or  telephoned.  All  day  she 
waited  in,  expecting  to  hear  from  him,  and  expectation 
increased  her  interest  and  her  disappointment.  Also, 
meditation  gave  her  a  perspective.  They  were  curious, 
these  second  thoughts,  deepening  the  impression  of  a  strik- 
ing difference  between  this  Harry  Horton  and  the  one 
who  had  gotten  drunk  in  the  Taverne  du  Pantheon. 
Idiosyncrasies  that  had  escaped  her  during  the  few 
moments  they  had  been  together  at  Javet's,  came  to  her 
now  with  startling  clearness,  the  slow  direct  gaze,  the 

117 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

deliberate  motions  of  the  hands,  their  touch  on  hers — 
and  parbleu! 

She  started  upright  as  a  thought  came  to  her  like 
a  coup  de  foudre.  The  twisted  little  finger  he  had  broken 
that  night  at  the  Pantheon.  It  had  bothered  him  only 
a  few  days  and  it  had  never  been  set.  She  remembered 
now  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  of  the  visitor  on  his 
wine  glass  at  Javet's,  remarking  how  strong  they  were. 
The  little  finger  was  straight! 

It  was  curious  that  such  a  trifle  should  come  to  her 
with  such  significance.  It  was  also  curious  that  she  hadn't 
noticed  it  at  the  time.  Could  she  be  mistaken?  When 
night  came  and  she  had  not  heard  from  Harry  she  went 
out  and  made  her  way  across  the  river,  leaving  word 
where  she  was  to  be  found  if  the  visitor  called,  and  went 
straight  to  the  cafe  of  Gabriel  Pochard. 

She  and  Gabriel  were  'rlends  of  long  standing.  Many 
years  ago.  when  she  was  but  a  child-model  for  Fabien, 
Gabriel  Pochard  had  posed  around  the  studios  with  long 
hair,  for  prophets  and  saints.  But  he  had  married  some 
money  and  opened  the  cafe  which  bore  his  name. 

It  was  not  a  beautiful  place,  and  as  she  knew  was 
frequented  by  perse  s  not  of  the  vrai  type,  the  gamblers, 
the  sharpers,  the  wealthy  outcasts  of  all  kinds,  who  knew 
a  good  omelette  when  they  tasted  one  and  relished  a 
particular  kind  of  seclusion.  For  here  no  questions  were 
asked.  It  was  at  Gabriel  Pochard's  that  Harry  Horton 
spent  much  time,  for  he  had  come  with  a  letter  to  Gabriel 
from  Monsieur  Quinlevin,  who  had  known  Pochard  since 
the  days  of  posing  for  the  great  Monsieur  Gerome.  It 
was  here  that  she  would  find  Harry  Horton  or  news  of 
him,  and  information  which  would  perhaps  answer 
the  strange  sequence  of  questions  that  had  come  rising 
to  her  mind.  She  had  the  French  passion  for  the  myste- 
rious, the  unexplainable,  and  with  her  own  pride  as  the 
118 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

stake,  she  meant  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  which  would 
help  her  to  a  solution  of  the  problem. 

She  found  Gabriel,  wearing  a  sober  air,  busy  with  his 
bottles  and  the  cafe  was  blue  with  tobacco  smoke. 

"All,  mon  vieux,"  she  said  in  the  argot.  "You  wear  a 
worried  look.  Has  Leon  Javet  been  stealing  away  your 
customers?" 

"Ah,  c'est  toi,  petite!    What  brings  you  here  alone?" 

"Ma  foi,  my  legs,  if  you  would  know  the  truth — and  a 
woman's  curiosity." 

"Tiem!    That  is  nothing  new.    How  can  I  help  you?" 

"I  want  you  tell  me  what  you  know  of  'Arry  'Orton." 

Gabriel  frowned  and  glanced  about  him  cautiously. 

"Sh ,"  he  said  warningly.     And  then,  in  a  whisper, 

"Who  told  you  that  Monsieur  'Orton  was  here?'* 

She  laughed  "Did  I  not  see  him  myself  with  my  own 
eyes  last  night?" 

"Where?" 

"At  Javet's."  And  then,  in  a  meaning  tone,  as  she 
looked  him  in  the  eyes,  "Him — or  another." 

He  glanced  at  her,  his  face,  which  still  showed  traces 
of  great  beauty,  twisted  unpleasantly,  and  then  beckoned 
her  to  follow  him  through  a  door  nearby  into  his  office. 
And  when  they  were  seated,  "What  did  you  mean, 
Piquette?" 

"What  I  said,"  put  in  Piquette,  lighting  a  cigarette. 
"Him — or  another."  And  then,  as  Gabriel's  frown  deep- 
ened, she  shot  straight  at  her  mark.  "There  are  two 
'Arry  'Ortons,  Gabriel  Pochard,"  she  said  coolly. 

The  effect  of  her  words  on  Gabriel  was  not  lost  on  her. 
He  looked  around  him  furtively  and  caught  her  by  the 
wrist. 

"Who  told  you  this?" 

"It's  true,  then?"  asked  Piquette. 

"Who  told  you?" 

119 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"My  own  eyes.  The  visitor  at  Javet's  had  no  twisted 
little  finger." 

"And  no  one  else  has  noticed?" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  am  aware." 

Gabriel  Pochard  gave  a  great  gasp  of  relief. 

"M a  foi,  child,  but  you  have  sharp  eyes  !" 

"If  they  weren't  sharp,  mon  vieux,  I  would  still  be 
selling  flowers  outside  the  Cafe  Soufflet.  Tell  me  the 
truth  of  this  thing,  Gabriel,"  she  said,  settling  herself  in 
her  chair  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  come  to  stay,  "it. 
is  what  I  came  here  to  find  out." 

He  glanced  at  her,  then  frowned  at  the  floor  and  shook 
his  head. 

"Oh,  yes,  mon  vieiuc,  you  will  tell  me  that  it  is  none  of 
my  business,"  she  said  firmly.  "Eh,  bien,  it  is  my  business 
—my  right  to  know.'*  And  then,  as  he  remained  silent, 
"You  are  aware  that  I  am  not  one  to  be  refused." 

Gabriel  rose  from  the  chair  at  the  desk  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  narrow  apartment,  but  still  he  did  not  speak. 
And  then  at  last,  "What  devil  put  it  into  your  head  to 
come  here  inquiring  of  this  matter?" 

"The  devil  himself — I ,"  she  said  with  a  gesture. 

And  then,  with  a  little  shrug  and  a  sober  mien,  "You 
may  trust  me,  Gabriel." 

He  stopped  and  sat  in  his  chair  again. 

"Eh,  bien!  As  you  have  said.  It  is  your  right.  But 
it  is  no  matter  to  be  breathed  outside  this  room." 

"It  will  not  be  the  first  time  I  have  kept  your  secrets." 

"I  should  not  tell  you." 

"Speak " 

Gabriel  Pochard  shrugged.  "Last  night,  late,  a  man 
came  in  here  to  see  me,  a  man  wearing  old  clothing  and  a 
three  weeks'  growth  of  beard.  It  was  Monsieur  'Orton. 
He  was  very  much  excited  and  told  me  a  remarkable  story 
that  rivals  the  tales  of  Monsieur  Hugo." 
120 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

"Yes,  I  understand.    Go  on." 

"He  said  he  was  wounded  upon  the  battlefield  at  night, 
when  out  of  the  darkness  appeared  just  beside  him  the 
very  image  of  himself.  It  was  his  twin  brother,  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  five  years,  a  brother  with  whom  he  did 
not  speak." 

"Ah — it  was  what  I  thought " 

"The  brother  took  from  Monsieur  'Orton  his  uniform 
and  went  on,  leading  his  men  to  victory.  It  was  the  fight 
of  Boissiere  Wood.  You  have  heard?" 

Piquette  nodded. 

"This  interloper  took  Monsieur  'Orton's  uniform,  his 
rank  and  identity,  and  now  comes  back  to  Paris — to 
Monsieur  'Orton's  own  apartment,  and  Monsieur  'Ortdn's 
wife » 

Piquette  had  started  to  her  feet,  her  fingers  grasping 
the  shoulder  of  Gabriel. 

"His  wife!"  she  broke  in. 

"Parfaitement,  his  wife,"  repeated  Pochard.  "You  did 
not  know?" 

"He  never  told  me,"  she  stammered.     "Who ?» 

"The  daughter  of  my  ancient  friend,  Monsieur  Barry 
Quinlevin,"  said  Pochard  with  a  shrug. 

"You're  sure?" 

"As  certain  as  I  sit  here,  ma  petite." 

Piquette  sank  into  her  chair,  frowning  deeply. 

"Go  on,"  she  muttered. 

"They  had  met  last  night  on  the  street  in  the  dark. 
Monsieur  'Orton  demanded  of  his  brother  to  relinquish  his 
identity.  He  refused.  Monsieur  'Orton  came  to  me.  It 
was  an  act  of  injustice.  Monsieur  'Orton  was  outcast. 
Something  had  to  be  done.  I  helped  him.  Votta  tout." 

Piquette  had  been  listening  intently,  thinking  deeply  the 
while.  As  Pochard  finished,  she  searched  his  face  keenly 
— her  frown  deepening. 

121 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"There's  something  at  the  back  of  this,  Pochard.  Tell 
me  the  rest." 

Pochard  hesitated,  scratched  his  head  and  shrugged  a 
shoulder.  "I  do  not  like  it,  you  understand.  It  has 
worried  me  all  day — an  American — a  soldiei .  One  cannot 
tell  what  would  happen  if  the  police " 

Piquette  understood  at  once.  Her  fingers  closed  again 
over  the  arm  of  Pochard. 

"What  have  you  done  with  him?" 

Pochard  bent  forward,  whispering.  "He  lies  in  the 
house  in  the  Rue  Charron  by  the  river.  A  knock  on  the 
head — c*est  tout — and  chloroform." 

Piquette  was  silent,  staring  at  the  wall.  Then  she  fixed 
her  wide  gaze  on  the  conspirator. 

"Bah!  You  are  a  fool,  Pochard!"  she  shot  at  him. 
"They  will  catch  you  sure.  How  much?" 

"Two  thousand  francs." 

"And  you  get  half,"  contemptuously.     "Who  did  it?5* 

"Tricot  and  Le  Singe  Anglais." 

"Tricot !" 

Piquette  got  up  and  paced  the  length  of  the  room, 
turning  quickly. 

"You  are  an  idiot,  Pochard,"  she  stormed  at  him  furi- 
ously. "An  American!  Don't  you  know  what  you  have 
done?  It  is  the  hero  of  Boissiere  Wood  that  you  have 
struck  down.  An  American — who  has  risked  his  life  for 
you  and  me " 

"But  Monsieur  'Orton " 

"He  has  lied  to  you.  I  do  not  believe "  She  broke 

off,  caught  Pochard  by  the  arm  again  and  shook  him. 
"When  did  this  happen?" 

"L-late  last  night " 

"And  'Arry  'Orton?" 

"Was  here — this  afternoon " 

"Drunk ?" 

122 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

Pochard  shrugged.  "No  —  not  bad.  He  was  in  uniform." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"I  think  he  has  gone  to  find  his  wife." 

"His  wife!" 

Piquette  sank  into  her  chair,  took  out  a  cigarette  and 
smoked  rapidly  for  a  moment.  And  then, 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  with  this  —  this  twin 
brother?" 

"I?"  Pochard  gave  a  gesture  of  abnegation.  "Nothing. 
I  am  through.  That  is  the  affair  of  Monsieur  'Orton." 

"Ah,  mon  ami,  but  you  can't  wriggle  out  so  easily. 
You've  received  money  —  blood  money  -  " 

Pochard  put  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  extended 
his  long  legs,  frowning  at  the  floor. 

"I  am  sorry  now.     It  is  a  bad  business  -  " 

"The  man  is  safe?" 

"So  far,  yes  -  " 

"But  Tricot?" 

"He  waits  for  orders." 

Piquette  ground  her  cigarette  under  her  heel  and  rose 
abruptly  with  an  air  of  decision. 

"This  American  must  be  liberated  at  once  !" 

Pochard  rose  and  faced  her.  "It's  too  late,"  he  growled. 

"No.  It's  not  too  late.  I  know  the  sort  that  Tricot 
is  —  with  the  river  just  there  —  at  his  elbow." 

"I  can  do  nothing.  That's  what  worries  me.  Tricot 
and  Le  Singe  will  look  after  their  own  skins  now." 

"You   mean,"   she   paused   significantly.      "The   Seine 


He  nodded  somberly. 
"It  is  the  solution  of  many  problems." 
She  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him. 
"But  not  of  this  problem.     You  understand.     It  will 
not  do.     I  will  not  have  it." 

"You,"  he  laughed.     "What  can  you  do?" 
123 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  shall  go  with  me  now — and  liberate  him " 

He  took  her  hands  from  his  arms  roughly  and  turned 
away.  "No,"  he  growled,  "not  I.  Have  I  not  told  you 
that  I  am  through?" 

"Yes.    You  will  be  through,  when  the  police  come  to 
find  out  what  you  know  about  the  matter." 

"They  will  not  find  out." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  'Arry  'Orton  is  a  fool  when  he 
drinks.  He  will  betray  you " 

Pochard  scowled.     "And  betray  himself ?H 

"You  can't  be  too  sure." 

"I  can't.    But  I  must  trust  to  luck." 

Piquette  stamped  her  foot. 

"I've  no  patience  with  you."  And  then,  "You  will  not 
liberate  him?" 

"No.  I  refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  the 
matter." 

"You  will  regret  it." 

"Perhaps.    That  will  be  my  own  lookout." 

She  stared  at  him  in  a  moment  of  indecision,  and  then 
with  a  shrug,  turned  toward  the  door  into  the  cafe. 

"You  are  an  idiot,  Gabriel." 

Pochard  grunted  as  he  followed  her. 

"You  will  say  nothing?" 

"Naturettement,"  scornfully.  "I  am  not  an  informer* 
But  I  should  like  to  knock  you  on  the  head  too." 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"To  the  Rue  Charron." 

He  caught  her  hand  away  from  the  knob  and  held  her. 

"You !     Why  should  you  intrude  in  this  affair?" 

"It  amuses  me." 

"I  warn  you  that  you  will  run  into  danger." 

"They  will  not  harm  me." 

"You  must  not  go." 

124 


PIQUE TTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

"Yes.  I  shall  save  you  from  the  results  of  your  cupid- 
ity— since  you  will  not  save  yourself." 

"I  will  not  permit  it " 

"You  have  nothing  to  say  in  the  matter — since  you've 
washed  your  hands  of  it." 

She  threw  his  hand  off  and  opened  the  door. 

"Piquette!"  he  called,  but  she  went  rapidly  into  the 
other  room  before  he  could  intercept  her,  ran  quickly  out 
into  the  street  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

She  was  throbbing  now,  deep  with  purpose.  It  was 
only  in  moments  like  these  that  life  ran  swiftly  in  her 
veins.  The  excitement  of  the  venture  was  like  a  tonic, 
and  she  went  on  rapidly  toward  the  Boule*  Miche*. 

As  she  walked  she  went  over  in  detail  the  conversation 
she  had  had  last  night  in  the  Cafe  Javet.  It  was  not 
surprising  that  she  had  not  guessed  the  truth  last  night, 
for  the  new  Harry  Horton's  information  as  to  his 
brother's  affairs  had  blinded  her  to  the  physical  differ- 
ences such  as  there  were,  between  them.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  glamor  that  his  heroism  had  thrown  about  him,  per- 
haps it  was  his  gravity,  or  perhaps  the  depth  of  his  voice 
or  the  penetrating  quality  of  his  steady  gaze,  but  she  had 
not  been  able  to  deny  all  day  a  new  and  extraordinary 
appreciation  of  the  newcomer,  whose  virtues,  half  guessed 
at,  seemed  to  bring  Harry  Horton's  deficiencies  into  higher 
relief.  And  the  mystery  of  his  sudden  appearance  and 
the  strange  tale  of  Gabriel  Pochard  provided  the  added 
touches  to  stimulate  her  interest  in  him.  As  she  had  told 
Gabriel,  there  was  something  back  of  this  mystery  of 
dual  identity,  and  she  meant  to  discover  the  truth.  As  to 
one  thing  she  was  resolved,  the  beautiful  young  soldier 
of  the  Cafe  Javet  should  not  die,  if  there  was  anything 
that  she  could  do  to  prevent  it. 

Tricot  was  a  bad  one.  So  was  Le  Singe  Anglais.  Either 
of  them  was  capable  of  anything.  She  was  acquainted 
125 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

with  them  both,  but  she  did  not  fear  them,  for  she  knew 
the  freemasonry  of  their  evil  calling  and  had  even  been 
in  the  little  room  of  Gabriel  Pochard  when  they  had 
discussed  their  business  affairs.  But  this  matter  con- 
cerned a  human  being  in  whom  she  was  interested.  No 
harm  should  come  to  him.  It  could  not  be.  She  wanted 
him  for  herself. 

And  so  at  last,  having  decided  that  she  must  move 
with  caution  and  leave  the  rest  to  chance  and  opportunity, 
she  went  toward  the  house  in  the  Rue  Charron.  She 
had  been  there  before  some  years  ago  with  Gabriel 
Pochard,  when  the  boat-load  of  champagne  from  up  the 
river  had  been  smuggled  in.  Thus  it  was  that  she  knew 
the  secret  of  the  old  passage  to  the  river  bank,  hidden 
from  the  opposite  shore  by  a  barricade  of  old  timber.  So 
instead  of  approaching  the  house  by  way  of  the  Rue 
Charron  she  went  down  toward  the  river  and  turned  in  to 
the  Quai  des  Augustins.  There  were  a  few  people  about 
but  she  watched  her  opportunity  and  when  she  reached 
the  steps  descended  to  the  boat  landing,  where  she  found 
herself  alone  and  unobserved,  hidden  from  the  lights  above 
by  the  shadow  of  the  retaining  wall.  Here  she  paused  a 
moment  to  think  and  plan.  According  to  all  the  rules  of 
the  underworld  the  prisoner  would  be  in  the  cellar  of  the 
house  in  the  Rue  Charron.  But  if  Tricot  or  Le  Singe  were 
taking  turns  guarding  him  there,  her  problem  would  be 
difficult.  Because  it  meant  a  scene  in  which  her  persua- 
sions and  promises  of  immunity  might  fail,  and  Tricot 
could  be  ugly.  Money?  Yes,  perhaps,  if  everything  else 
failed.  But  she  had  a  sense  of  pride  in  the  belief  that  with 
luck  favoring  her  she  could  accomplish  this  rescue  alone. 

At  any  rate  she  meant  to  make  the  attempt — and  so, 

she  found  the  end  of  the  tunnel  and  with  some  difficulty 

and  damage  to  her  gloves  and  clothing,  wrenched  at  the 

boarding.    The  timbers  were  old  and  rotten,  as  she  knew, 

126 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

and  it  was  not  difficult  to  make  a  passage.  It  was  so 
easy  in  fact  that  she  began  to  believe  that  Tricot  had 
more  wisely  kept  his  prisoner  upstairs,  but  as  she  moved 
forward  cautiously,  one  hand  steadying  her  progress  over 
the  rough  masonry,  she  caught  the  first  dull  glimmer  of 
yellow  light.  As  she  came  to  a  turn  in  the  passage  she 
paused  a  moment  and  then  stole  forward  quietly,  to  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  peering  up  into  the  cellar. 

At  first  she  could  see  nothing  but  a  litter  of  boxes, 
bottles  and  waste  paper,  and  then  coming  up  one  step  at 
a  time,  she  searched  the  recesses  of  the  cavern  one  by  one. 
A  smoke-stained  lantern  burned  dimly  near  the  foot  of  the 
flight  of  steps,  leading  to  the  floor  above,  but  there  was 
no  sign  of  any  one  watching.  And  so  she  emerged  cau- 
tiously from  the  dark  hole  and  stood  up.  In  a  moment 
she  found  what  she  was  looking  for.  Huddled  in  the 
corner  to  her  right,  she  made  out  the  contours  of  a  human 
figure.  With  another  quick  glance  toward  the  steps  and 
a  moment  to  listen  for  any  sound  above,  she  approached 
noiselessly.  He  was  trussed  with  a  rope  from  head  to 
foot,  his  hands  tied  behind  him.  But  he  was  the  man 
she  sought.  She  bent  over  him,  noticing  his  heavy  breath- 
ing and  the  odor  of  the  drug.  At  the  touch  of  her  hand 
he  stirred  slightly  and  she  saw  the  blood  upon  his  face. 

"Monsieur !"  she  whispered  quickly,  "it  is  I — Piquette — 
and  I  have  come  to  help  you." 

He  stirred  again  and  tried  to  move,  but  the  drug  was 
heavy  in  his  blood.  So  she  shook  him  furiously,  trying  to 
arouse  him. 

"It  is  Piquette,"  she  whispered  again. 

His  lips  moved  and  his  eyelids  fluttered  open.  "Piquette 
!"  he  muttered,  and  then  breathed  stertorously. 

This  was  encouraging.    She  shook  him  again  and  again, 
fighting  the  lethargy.     He  moved  and  groaned.    It  seemed 
almost  certain  that  his  guardians  must  hear  him. 
127 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Sh ,"  she  whispered,  "Silence !" 

Meanwhile  she  was  struggling  with  the  knots  of  the 
cord  that  bound  his  wrists.  At  last  she  managed  to  get 
his  arms  free  and  moved  them  backward  and  forward  with 
all  her  strength,  trying  to  restore  his  circulation.  Then 
she  unfastened  the  cords  at  his  feet  and  pulled  his  knees 
up,  thumping  him  from  time  to  time  and  whispering  at 
his  ear. 

"Wake  up,  Monsieur !    You  mus'  get  out  of  dis  wit'  me 


His  lips  moved  again.     "Who " 

"It's  Piquette,  Monsieur,"  she  repeated,  prodding  at 
him  and  shaking  his  shoulders. 

This  time  his  eyelids  opened  wider,  and  he  looked  at 
her  vaguely.  But  his  lips  muttered  her  name. 

"You  mus'  rouse  yourself — you  mus'!  We  are  going 
out  of  here — at  once." 

With  an  effort  he  struggled  up  to  a  sitting  posture 
while  she  supported  him,  pinching  his  shoulders  and  arms. 
Then  she  saw  for  the  first  time  an  earthen  pitcher  on  a 
stool  nearby.  There  was  still  some  water  in  it,  and  she 
threw  it  in  his  face.  He  sputtered  and  choked,  but  she 
silenced  him. 

"Quiet — for  your  life!     Dey're  upstairs,  aren't  dey?" 

"Yes — upstairs.     I — I'm  weak  as  a  cat." 

"Naturallyj  but  you've  got  to  'elp  yourself.  I  can't 
carry  you." 

"Carry  me — no "  He  toppled  sideways  and  would 

have  fallen,  but  she  caught  him  and  held  him,  shaking 
and  pinching  him  again. 

"No.  You've  got  to  wake  up.  Do  you  hear?"  she 
whispered  desperately.  "They  may  come  down  'ere  at 
any  moment." 

A  dim  notion  of  what  she  was  talking  about  seemed  to 
128 


PIQUE TTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

come  to  him,  for  with  an  effort  he  threw  off  the  heaviness 
that  was  coming  over  him  again. 

"You— Piquette— How  did  you ?" 

"By  an  old  passage  from  dis  cellar  to  de  river.  You 
mus'  go  out  dat  way.  Do  you  on'erstand  me?" 

He  nodded  feebly.     "River "  he  muttered. 

There  was  another  struggle  against  the  drug  and 
another,  but  at  last  she  got  him  to  understand.  He  was 
very  weak,  but  managed  to  support  himself  with  an 
effort,  sitting  upright,  while  Piquette  ran  over  towaro? 
the  foot  of  the  steps  and  listened  intently,  for  if  Tricot 
and  the  Englishman  were  listening,  they  must  surely  have 
heard  something  of  the  commotion  she  had  made.  But 
there  was  no  sound. 

She  went  back  to  the  injured  man.  Would  he  be  able 
to  walk?  She  shook  him  again  and  pointed  to  the  way 
by  which  she  had  come. 

"It  is  dere — in  de  corner — the  way  of  escape.  You 
mus'  make  de  effort." 

She  helped  him  struggle  to  his  knees,  one  of  his  arms 
around  her  shoulders,  but  when  she  attempted  to  get  him 
to  his  feet,  his  knees  gave  out  and  he  fell,  dragging  her 
down  with  him. 

It  was  at  this  moment  of  failure,  that  a  sudden  clamor 
of  knocking  at  the  street  door  upstairs  came,  with  terrify- 
ing clearness,  to  her  ears.  And  the  sound  of  a  masculine 
voice  calling  the  name  of  Tricot.  There  was  no  time  to 
be  lost,  yet  what  was  she  to  do?  She  was  strong,  but 
she  could  not  lift  the  American  bodily  and  he  had  collapsed 
again  upon  the  floor.  For  an  agonized  moment  she  listened. 
A  long  silence  and  then  the  knocking  was  renewed, 
followed  by  the  sound  of  another  voice  upstairs  and  the 
tread  of  heavy  feet  going  toward  the  door.  Desperate 
now,  and  aware  that  only  the  American's  own  efforts  could 
129 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

save  him,  she  lifted  him  again  by  sheer  strength  to  his 
knees. 

"Dey'll  be  down  'ere  in  a  moment,"  she  stammered  in 
his  ear.  "You've  got  to  help  yourself.  You've  got  to. 
Crawl — on  your  knees — toward  de  corner  beyond  de 
pillar.  I  will  'elp  you." 

He  seemed  to  understand  and  struggled  a  few  feet, 
paused  in  weakness,  then  struggled  on  again.  And  all  the 
while  Piquette  was  listening  to  the  sounds  upstairs,  the 
voices  which  now  seemed  to  be  near  the  head  of  the  stair- 
way, coming  to  her  ears  distinctly. 

"We've  got  to  get  him  away  from  here — out  into  the 
country  somewhere — and  lose  him."  Harry  Horton's 
voice. 

"Why?"  growled  a  voice  in  English. 

"Moira  Quinlevin  knows  the  truth." 

An  oath  from  Tricot  as  the  other  translated. 

"Who  told  her?" 

"No  one.     She  guessed  it." 

"Parbleu !    We  shall  take  no  chances  then." 

"You  must  take  him  away — a  cab — out  into  the 
country,"  said  Harry's  voice  again. 

"And  leave  him  to  recover  and  set  the  police  on  us? 
Not  much.  He'll  have  to  go  the  long  road." 

"My  God!    No.     Not  that!"  cried  Harry. 

"The  river!"  growled  Tricot. 

And  then  the  other  voice. 

"You  started  this  thing.  And  it's  got  to  be  finished. 
Did  you  bring  the  money?" 

"To-morrow.    But — I  can't " 

There  was  the  beginning  of  a  violent  discussion  in  which 
Tricot's  advice  seemed  to  prevail.  Harry's  opinions 
wouldn't  matter  much  to  these  precious  villains. 

But  Piquette  had  heard  enough.  It  seemed  that  they 
were  about  to  descend  the  stairs  to  the  prisoner,  and 
130 


PIQUETTE  TAKES  A  HAND 

glancing  backward  she  labored  with  the  injured  man  until 
they  reached  the  shadows  of  the  pillar  into  which  she 
pushed  and  dragged  him  until  they  were  both  hidden  from 
the  light  of  the  lantern.  But  the  steps  into  the  passage 
were  still  ten  feet  away.  Already  there  were  footsteps  on 
the  stair,  where  one  of  the  men  stood,  still  arguing  with 
Harry  Horton.  With  a  final  effort,  she  urged  the  drugged 
man  toward  the  opening  and  then  tumbled  him  down  into 
the  darkness. 

She  heard  the  steps  coming  down  the  stairs,  heard  them 
pause  and  a  voice  again  raised  in  argument.  But  she 
listened  no  more.  The  situation  was  desperate,  for  in  a 
few  seconds  at  the  least,  the  escape  of  the  prisoner  would 
be  discovered,  so  forgetting  caution,  she  pinched  and 
shook  him,  by  main  strength  of  her  strong  young  arms, 
urging  him  forward.  Something  of  the  imminence  of  his 
danger  seemed  to  come  to  him,  for  he  crawled  to  the  corner 
and  then  stumbled  in  some  fashion  to  his  feet,  clinging  to 
her.  The  air  beyond  the  turn  in  the  passage  seemed  to 
revive  him  and  in  a  momeril,  swaying  and  struggling 
against  his  weakness,  he  stood  outside  the  opening  upon 
the  river-bank,  leaning  against  the  wall,  while  Piquette 
thrust  the  boards  across  the  opening. 

She  heard  a  cry  now  from  beyond  the  passage  and 
with  the  injured  man's  arm  around  her  shoulders,  led  the 
way  down  the  bank  to  the  landing.  He  caught  her  inten- 
tion. There  was  a  boat  there  and  she  got  him  into  it 
and  pushed  off  from  the  shore  into  the  stream.  She  was 
almost  exhausted  by  this  time,  but  managed  to  get  out 
the  oars  and  make  some  progress  down  the  river  before 
the  timbers  fell  from  before  the  opening  in  the  wall  and 
three  men  appeared — Tricot,  Harry  and  the  Englishman. 
She  saw  their  shapes  dimly  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

But  a  strange  thing  happened  then.  For  the  three 
figures  went  flying  up  the  steps  to  the  Quai  and  then  ran 
131 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

as   though  for  their  lives  in  the  direction  of  the  Pont 
St.  Michel. 

But  she  managed  at  last  to  reach  the  Quai  du  Louvre, 
where  with  the  help  of  a  belated  passer-by,  she  managed  to 
get  the  man  she  had  rescued  into  a  fiacre  and  so  to  the 
Boulevard  Clichy, 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  SAMARITAN 

WHEN  Jim  Horton  came  to  his  senses  after  his 
rescue,  he  found  himself  in  a  small  room  overlook- 
ing a  pleasant  facade  of  gray  stone,  tinted  softly 
by  the  pale  morning  sunlight.  It  was  some  moments  before 
he  managed  to  gather  his  scattered  wits  together  and  out 
of  the  haze  and  darkness  in  which  he  had  been  groping 
for  two  nights  and  a  day,  recall  the  incidents  of  his 
escape.  Piquette !  He  remembered.  .  .  .  But  what  was 
this  room?  There  had  been  a  cab-drive  late  in  the  night 
• — he  had  been  carried  up  a  flight  of  stairs  .  .  .  As  he 
turned  in  the  bed  he  was  aware  of  a  figure  which  rose 
from  the  corner  of  the  room  and  approached  him.  It  was 
an  oldish  woman  in  the  neat  uniform  of  a  maid. 

She  smiled.  "Monsieur  is  awake?"  And  then,  moving 
toward  the  door,  "Madame  shall  come  at  once." 

But  when  Piquette  entered  the  small  room,  attired  in  a 
gorgeous  pink  lounging  robe  of  silk  and  lace  and  wearing 
a  boudoir-cap  embroidered  with  silken  flowers  and  golden 
thread,  she  dazzled  him  for  a  moment  with  her  splendor, 
and  he  did  not  recognize  her.  She  came  forward  to  him 
quickly  and  laid  her  cool  hand  on  his  brow. 

"Ah,  mon  petit,  c'est  mieux."  And  then,  in  English, 
"  'Ow  do  you  feel?" 

"Better.  Buc  everything  doesn't  seem — very  clear  to 
me  yet." 

"Naturellement.  You  mus'  'ave  some  food  and  de  doc- 
tor will  be  'ere  soon." 

133 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Jim  Horton  glanced  about  the  small  room. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  where  I  am?"  he  asked. 

"Dis  room  is  in  de  hallway  adjoining  my  apartment 


"You  brought  me  here ?" 

"Las*  night,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "an'  a  beautiful 
time  we  had  getting  you  up  de  stair — 

"I — I  remember — a  man  with  a  lantern — and  then  a 
struggle — with  you  helping — through  a  passage — to  the 
river — a  boat " 

"A  voiture  an'  den — here,"  she  added  as  he  paused. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  fingered  the  lace  of  her  sleeve. 

"Why — why  did  you  do  this  for  me,  Piquette?" 

She  caught  his  hand,  pressed  it  in  hers,  and  then  rose 
abruptly. 

"What  does  it  matter?  You  s'all  talk  no  more  until 
after  de  doctor  'as  seen  you.  Sh — 

Later  in  the  day  after  Jim  Horton  had  slept  again, 
Piquette  visited  him,  dressed  for  the  street.  In  a  few 
words  she  told  him  how  she  had  guessed  at  the  double 
identity — then  confirmed  it,  and  then  how  she  had  dis- 
covered the  means  Harry  Horton  had  employed  to  get 
his  brother  out  of  the  way.  She  dwelt  lightly  on  his  rescue 
from  the  house  in  the  Rue  Charron  and  explained  quite 
frankly  her  own  relations  with  the  criminals. 

"C'est  la  grande  vie,  Monsieur  VAmericain"  she  said 
with  an  expressive  gesture.  "You  remember  perhaps  what 
Monsieur  Valcourt  'as  said.  I  am  still  de  vrai  gamine. 
I  know  dat  vilain  Pochard  since  I  am  so  high." 

"But  why  have  you  done  this  for  me,  Piquette?  When 
you  found  out  that  I  was  not  my  brother ' 

"Oh,  la,  la!     Who  can  tell?     Perhaps  I  like'  you  a 
little  de  night  in  Javet's.     De  thought  of  de  adventure — 
perhaps,  but  more  dat  Tricot  and  Le  Singe  Anglais — dey 
would  'ave  frown  you  in  de  river,  Monsieur." 
134 


THE  SAMARITAN 


"You  saved  my  life — — " 

"Yes.  You  see,  Monsieur — Monsieur,"  she  paused  in 
search  of  a  name. 

"My  name  is  Jim  Horton." 

"Jeem!  Cest  bon  fa.  Jeem  'Orton,  dere  wasn'  any- 
t'ing  else  for  me  to  do.  You  were  a  good  Americain — 
who  'ad  fought  at  La  Boissiere  for  France  and  for  me. 
An'  he  had  not.  It  could  not  be  dat  you  should  die.  But 
dere  are  many  t'ings  I  do  not  yet  on'erstand.  If  you 
would  tell  me ?" 

Jim  Horton  was  silent  a  moment,  thinking  deeply. 

"You  were  a  friend  of  my  brother's." 

He  put  it  more  in  the  form  of  a  statement  than  a 
question. 

"Yes,  Jeem  'Orton,"  she  said,  "before  ye  went  to  de 
front.  Dat  does  not  matter  now,  I  can  assure  you.  What 
'appen'  at  Boissiere  Wood,  mon  ami?  Pochard  to?  me 

what   'Arry   'Orton   said "     And  she   related   it   as 

nearly  as  possible  in  Pochard's  own  words. 

Jim  Horton  listened,  smiling  slightly,  until  she  had 
finished.  And  then, 

"I  had  intended  to  keep  silent  about  this  thing,  Piquette. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  keep  silent  now.  I'm  going  to  tell 
the  truth,  whatever  happens  to  Harry  or  to  me.  He 
would  have  killed  me " 

"No,"  she  broke  in.  "I  t'ink  'Arry  was  frighten'  at  what 
he  'ad  done " 

"He  wasn't  too  frightened  to  get  those  chaps  to  knock 
me  in  the  head,"  he  put  in  dryly,  then  broke  off  with  a 
sudden  sense  of  the  situation.  "I  hope,  Madame,  that 
you  do  not  care  for  him." 

She  had  been  watching  him  intently  and  now  put  her 
hand  over  his. 

"No — no,  Jeem  'Orton,"  she  said  carelessly.     "But  tell 

me  de  truth " 

135 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  long  moment. 

"No  one  has  a  better  right  to  know  it  than  you." 

And  then,  without  ornamentation,  he  related  the  facts 
from  the  unfortunate  moment  that  night  when  he  had  put 
on  Harry's  uniform  and  gone  into  the  fight  until  he  had 
met  his  brother  in  the  Rue  de  Tavennes.  She  heard  him 
through  to  the  end. 

"You  'ave  not  told  me  everyt'ing,  Jeem  'Orton,"  And 
then,  significantly,  "About  Madame — Madame  'Orton?" 

He  frowned  and  then  went  on  with  an  assumption  of 
carelessness. 

"The  situation  was  impossible,  as  you  will  see.  I 

would  have  gone  away "  he  shrugged,  "if  Harry 

hadn't  saved  me  the  need  of  it.  But  now " 

He  paused  and  clenched  a  fist.  "He  has  much  to 
answer  to  me  for." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while,  watching  him. 

"A  coward!  I  might  'ave  known,"  she  murmured  after 
a  moment. 

In  the  conversation  that  followed  many  things  were 
revealed  to  Jim  Horton,  many  things  to  Piquette.  He 
learned  from  her  own  lips  every  detail  of  the  story  of 
Quinlevin's  plot  against  the  Due  and  what  was  to  be 
Moira's  share  in  it,  and  he  listened  in  anger  and  amaze- 
ment. As  to  her  relations  with  de  Vautrin,  she  spoke 
with  the  utmost  frankness.  He  was  not  a  pleasant  person, 
and  to  her  mind,  for  all  his  money  and  position,  possessed 
fewer  virtues  even  than  the  outrageous  Pochard  and  his 
crew,  who  at  least  were  good-natured  villains  and  made 
no  pretenses.  The  Due  was  stingy — cruel,  self-obsessed 
and  degenerate.  Que  fa  m'eiribete  fa!  Why  she  had  not 
cut  loose  from  him  and  gone  back  to  live  in  the  Quartier 
she  did  not  know,  except  that  it  was  comfortable  in  the 
Boulevard  Clichy  and  she  was  tired  of  working  hard. 

He  found  himself  regarding  Piquette  with  interest. 
136 


THE  SAMARITAN 


The  type  was  new  to  him,  but  he  liked  her  immensely. 
She  might  betray  her  Due,  but  in  her  own  mind  she 
would  have  perfectly  adequate  reasons  for  doing  so. 

As  to  Moira,  little  enough  was  said.  If  she  suspected 
anything  of  his  tenderness  in  that  quarter  she  gave  not 
a  sign  of  it.  But  he  could  see  that  the  facts  as  to  his 
brother's  marriage  had  come  as  a  surprise  to  her. 

"An'  now,  Jeem  'Orton,"  said  Piquette  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  he  had  strength  enough  to  sit  in  a  chair  by  the 
window,  "what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

He  thought  for  a  moment. 

"You  have  given  me  my  life.  I  should  dislike  to  do 
anything  that  would  give  you  unhappiness." 

"As  to  that,  mon  petit,"  she  said  carelessly,  "you  s'all 
do  what  you  t'ink  bes'.  You  know  perhaps  dat  to-mor- 
row in  de  Place  de  la  Concorde,  your  brother  'Arry  is  to 
receive  de  Croix  de  Guerre?" 

He  had  forgotten,  but  the  announcement  had  no  effect 
upon  him. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  he  muttered.  What  he  had  been 
thinking  in  his  moments  of  wakefulness  was  of  Harry 
going  to  the  studio  in  the  Rue  de  Tavennes.  Moira  was 
his  wife.  Would  she,  like  Piquette,  learn  at  once  of  the 
deception?  Or  would  she  accept  him  .  .  .  ? 

"You  do  not  care  for  de  honors  ^ou  have  won?"  asked 
Piquette,  breaking  on  his  thought. 

"They  weren't  my  honors " 

"But  you  bear  de  wounds " 

"Yes,  and  they're  proofs  my  brother  will  find  it  hard 
to  answer.  But  tell  me,  Piquette,  what  you  have  heard. 
Do  they  suspect  you  of  having  carried  me  off?" 

Piquette  laughed.  "No.  I  saw  Emile  Pochard  las' 
night.  'E  does  not  dare  speak.  Tricot,  'Arry,  Le  Singe — 
137 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

I  saw  dem  at  Pochard's.  Dey  t'ink  you  are  a  devil.  It 
is  de  police  worries  dem  mos'." 

"The  police  ?" 

"Some  one  followed  'Arry  'Orton  to  de  house  in  de  Rue 
Charron  and  tol'  de  police.  Dey  came  jus'  as  we  escape'. 
Your  brother  was  lucky  to  get  away." 

"Who  could  this  have  been?" 

"I  don'  know.  But  what  does  it  matter  since  you  are 
safe?"  And  then,  after  a  long  pause,  "No  harm  'as  been 
done  except  to  your  poor  head.  We  mus'  let  de  matter 
drop,  Jeem  'Orton.  It  is  better  so." 

"If  that  is  your  wish,  Piquette " 

"Yes.  It  will  be  safer  for  us  both,  for  you  because  you 
mus'  keep  in  hiding — for  me — because  I  'ave  a  reputation 
at  stake." 

His  eager  look  inquired  her  meaning. 

"Emile  Pochard  would  never  trus'  me  again." 

He  laughed.  "And  you  value  the  friendship  of  Mon- 
sieur Tricot?" 

"No.  But  I  know  de  law  of  de  apache.  It  would  not 
be  pleasant  to  'ave  one's  t'roat  cut  an'  be  frown  in  de 
Seine." 

The  true  meaning  of  the  danger  that  she  had  run  for 
him  gave  Jim  Horton  a  new  and  lively  sense  of  his  obliga- 
tions and  responsibilities  to  this  strange  creature.  He 
caught  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it  warmly. 

"How  can  I  ever  repay  you?"  he  blurted  out. 

Her  face  flushed  gently  and  she  regarded  him  with  eyes 
almost  maternal. 

"What  a  boy  you  are !"  she  laughed. 

"But  a  stranger  to  you.  To  have  run  such  risks — to 
have  made  such  a  struggle  just  because  you  knew  I  was 
helpless." 

"It  amuse'  me,  Jeem  'Orton.  Sometimes  I  t'ink  it  is 
fear  dat  is  de  grande  passion — when  one  has  tasted  every- 
138 


THE  SAMARITAN 


t'ing  else  in  life.  Fear.  To  succeed  in  an  adventure  like 
this — Et  nous  voila!  Quite  safe  and  comfortable — an' 
each  of  us  'as  made  a  friend.  Is  not  dees  wort'  all  de 
trouble?" 

"Piquette!"  he  said,  "you're  a  wonder!  Ill  never 
forget " 

"Ah,  yes,  you  will,  mon  petit,"  she  broke  in  with  a 
shrug,  "you  are  different  from  'Arry.  You  are  always 
le  grand  serieux.  It  was  what  I  noticed  at  Javet's.  You 
will  love  much,  but  you  will  never  lie  jus'  to  make  a  woman 
'appy.  And  me — you  will  forget,  Jeem  'Orton." 

"Never,"  he  said  stoutly,  "never,  Piquette.  You're  the 
bravest,  squarest  woman  in  the  world." 

She  laughed  again.  "Attons!  For  dat — I  shall  kees 
you,  mon  ami." 

And  she  did,  with  a  friendly  frankness,  upon  the  mouth. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  sanctuary,  this,  into  which 
fortune  had  thrown  him,  but  deep  in  his  heart  Jim  Horton 
knew  that  Piquette  had  read  him  truly.  He  was  no 
panderer  to  women's  caprices,  and  he  could  not  forget  the 
tragedy  of  the  woman  he  loved,  which  might  almost  be 
laid  at  his  door. 

"You  do  not  mind  my  keesing  you,  mon  petit?"  she 
asked. 

"No.       I  like  it,"  said  Horton  with  a  laugh. 

But  Piquette  knew.  Life  in  the  streets  of  Paris  had 
given  her  a  sense  of  the  fourth  dimension.  And  curiously 
enough  her  prescience  only  quieted  her,  made  her  a  little 
graver,  matching  her  mind — her  mood  to  his.  He  provided 
a  new  sensation,  this  outcast  hero  who  owed  her  his  life 
and  yet  was  to  pay  her  only  in  gratitude, 


Jim  Horton  was  penniless,  for  with  an  irony  not  lost 
on  him,  the  money  he  had  gotten  from  the  bank  had  gone 
139 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

to  pay  Tricot  and  Le  Singe  their  price  for  his  knock  on 
the  head.  The  clothing  he  found  himself  in  had  been 
none  too  good  when  Harry  had  worn  it,  and  the  incarcera- 
tion in  the  filthy  cellar  had  done  nothing  to  improve  it. 
Outcast  he  mighc  be,  but  he  meant  while  he  had  money  in 
bank  at  least  to  look  presentable.  So  Piquette  got  him 
a  blank  check  from  the  bank  which  he  made  out  and 
Piquette  cashed,  and  the  next  day  when  he  was  able  to 
go  out,  he  bought  himself  a  suit.  He  came  back  in  the 
afternoon  and  with  much  pride  exhibited  his  purchase. 

She  gave  the  clothing  her  approval  and  then  shrugged 

"An'  now,  man  Jeem,  you  will  be  going  away,  n'est  ce 
pas?" 

"Is  it  not  better,  Piquette?  I  have  not  the  honor  of 
Monsieur  de  Vautrin's  acquaintance." 

"Oh,  fa!"  she  said  with  a  quick  gesture.  "II  est  "bete. 
He  would  never  know." 

Jim  Horton  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  made 
her  look  in  his  eyes. 

"That's  not  the  way,  Piquette.  You  are  too  fine  not  to 
see.  I  can't  be  an  object  of  your  charity  any  longer — 
because  it's  his  charity.  I  owe  you  my  life.  I  want  to 
pay — but  not  like  this.  I  want  you  to  see  my  gratitude  in 
my  eyes,  the  depth  of  my  friendship,  I  want  you  to  know 
that  what  you've  done  for  me  has  given  a  new  meaning  to 
courage  and  unselfishness." 

She  turned  her  head  away  as  he  paused,  and  then  gently 
took  his  hands  from  her  shoulders. 

"I  can  pay,  Piquette,"  he  insisted  quietly.  "You  do 
not  love  the  Due  de  Vautrin.  Come  away  from  here  with 
me.  I  have  a  little  money.  I  can  get  more  from  America. 
We  will  find  you  a  place  in  the  Quartier  where  you  will 
be  happy  until  you  have  the  home  you  deserve " 

"And  you ,"  she  faltered. 

"What  I  do  doesn't  matter.     An  outcast " 

140 


THE  SAMARITAN 


She  started. 

"You  will  leave  Paris?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

She  released  her  fingers  quickly  and  went  to  the  window, 
looking  over  the  rooftops  in  a  long  significant  moment  of 
silence. 

"And  de  oder  woman " 

She  spoke  the  words  distinctly,  and  yet  he  thought  he 
must  have  misunderstood. 

"Piquette,  I " 

"What  'appens  between  you  an'  your  brother's  wife?" 
she  asked  quietly. 

He  had  no  reply  and  while  he  hesitated  she  turned 
slowly  and  faced  him. 

"I  know,  mon  petit,9*  she  said  with  a  smile.  "I  'ave 
known  it  from  de  firs'.  You  love  'er.  C'est  dommage. 
It  is  a  pity.  She  is  ver'  beautiful,  dey  say." 

"I  am  a  fool,  Piquette." 

"You  are  not  de  firs'  in  de  worl' " 

He  sank  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  wondering  at  his  own 
confession. 

"I  was  sorry  for  her — for  her  innocence,  married  to  a 
man  like  that.  She  was  kind  to  me.  I  played  the  part 
and  kept  silence.  They  were  going  to  use  her — palm  her 
off  as  de  Vautrin's  child " 

He  paused  and  looked  up  at  Piquette,  aware  that  the 
topic  that  he  had  not  dared  to  broach  now  suddenly 
loomed  between  them. 

Piquette  faced  him  gravely. 

"Yes,  mon  ami,"  she  said,  and  the  rising  inflection 
was  very  gentle. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  wish  to  do,  Piquette,  and 

it  is  not  for  me  to  say.      But  before  I  was  hurt,  I  had 

planned  to  find  out  all  the  facts  of  this  conspiracy  and 

tell  both  Harry's  wife  and  the  Due  de  Vautrin.     You 

141 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

have  given  me  the  facts.    Do  you  want  me  to  use  them?" 

Piquette  was  silent  a  moment,  regarding  him  with  a 
smile. 

"Well,  mon  ami,  'as  anything  'appen'  to  make  you 
change  your  mind?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  wonder. 

"Piquette,  I  thought "  he  began.  But  she  broke 

in  lightly. 

"You  s'all  do  what  you  wish,  but  it  is  a  difficult  game 
you  play  an'  dangereux.  You  do  not  know  Monsieur 
Quinlevin.  If  Tricot  is  de  wolf  an'  Emile  Pochard  de 
fox,  it  is  Barry  Quinlevin  who  is  de  tiger.  'Arry  'Orton 
knows.  'E  is  afraid — what  you  call — eat  out  of  his  'and." 

"I've  got  to  beat  him,  Piquette." 

"Eh,  bien!  But  remember,  'e  is  not  a  man  to  be  easily 
vanquished.  'E  is  ver'  quiet,  ver'  cool,  le  vrai  gentilhomme, 
but  'e  'as  sharp  claws,  Jeem  'Orton." 

"A  thief " 

"And  de  Vautrin?"  she  broke  in.  "Monsieur  le  Due  is 
no  better  dan  he.  He  did  not  care  'ow  'e  got  de  money." 

Horton  paced  the  room  slowly,  in  deep  abstraction, 
but  in  a  moment  stopped  before  her  and  caught  her  hands 
in  his. 

"Piquette,"  he  said  gravely,  "you  were  in  this  thing — 
I  don't  know  why  or  how,  because  a  woman  with  a  soul  as 
big  as  yours  oughtn't  to  be  stooping  to  this  kind  of 
rottenness." 

For  a  long  while  she  made  no  reply,  but  she  turned  her 
head  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"I  can't  change  de  way  I  was  born,  Jeem  'Orton,"  she 
said  quietly. 

He  was  silent,  aware  of  the  false  situation,  and  thinking 
deeply. 

"I've  got  to  tell  her  the  truth,  Piquette,"  he  said  at  last, 
142 


THE  SAMARITAN 


Another  moment  of  silence  and  then  Piquette  turned 
toward  him,  both  arms  outstretched. 

"You  are  right,  man  petit  Jeem.  You  s'all  go  to  'er  and 
tell  'er " 

"Piquette !» 

"Je  ne  me  fiche  pas.    Go.    It's  nothing  to  me." 

Jim  Horton  had  risen  and  put  his  arms  around  her, 
turning  her  face  up  to  his  and  kissing  her  gently.  She 
made  no  resistance,  but  she  did  not  return  his  caress. 

"You  are  too  good  for  him,  Piquette." 

She  stirred  uneasily  in  his  arms  and  then  released 
herself. 

"Go,  Jeem ",  she  said.     "Go." 

"Will  you  meet  me  to-night  at  Javet's?" 

"Yes.    Au  revoir,  mon  brave" 

She  watched  him  go  down  the  stair  and  then  turned  in 
at  the  door  of  her  own  apartment. 


Jim  Horton  was  no  squire  of  dames,  but  he  couldn't 
be  unaware  of  the  attractions  of  this  lovely  pagan.  Like 
her  he  was  an  outcast  and  their  ways  perhaps  lay  along 
the  same  paths  to  oblivion,  but  before  he  started  down 
that  road  he  had  a  duty  still  to  perform,  a  wrong  to  set 
right,  and  he  meant  to  do  it  without  delay.  If  Harry 
had  succeeded  in  ingratiating  himself  with  Moira  he  knew 
that  she  must  despise  him  for  his  betrayal  of  her  credulity. 
But  he  meant  to  seek  her  out  just  the  same  and  tell  her 
the  truth  about  Barry  Quinlevin  as  he  knew  it.  He 
wanted  to  see  her  again — just  this  once,  in  order  to  try 
and  justify  himself  in  her  eyes  for  his  imposture,  and 
then  he  would  go — he  didn't  much  care  where. 

But  he  realized  as  he  crossed  the  river  that  it  was  not 
going  to  be  an  easy  matter  to  reach  her  unobserved.  He 
knew  that  Harry  must  be  passing  some  uneasy  moments 
143 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

and  it  was  better  that  Harry  didn't  see  him  just  yet. 
But  there  was  the  watchful  Madame  Toupin  to  pass  and 
it  was  still  half  an  hour  until  dusk  when  he  hoped  to  slip 
through  the  gate  and  up  the  stairs.  Meanwhile  he  found 
himself  a  lodging  in  an  obscure  street  and  then  with  his 
hat-brim  pulled  down  walked  into  the  Rue  de  Tavennes 
and  boldly  approached  the  familiar  gate. 
"Madame  Horton?"  he  asked. 

"Oui,  Monsieur.    She  is  in.    Do  you  know  the  way?" 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  simple.    Madame  Toupin 
had  pulled  the  latch  without  even  looking  up  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CONFESSIONS 

IT  all  seemed  like  a  horrible  'dream  to  Moira — the 
revelation  of  Harry's  vileness — the  prison  by  the 
river,  the  police,  the  escape  of  Jim  Horton  with  the 
unknown  woman,  the  homeward  ride  with  the  police  officer, 
and  the  night  in  the  studio-apartment  with  locked  doors, 
waiting — listening  for  Harry's  return,  until  at  last 
through  sheer  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body  she  had  fallen 
asleep.  And  then,  the  visit  the  next  day  of  the  police 
officer,  the  questions  that  she  had  to  answer.  But  he  got 
nothing  from  her  beyond  the  mere  skeleton  of  the  tale 
which  she  had  given  the  night  before.  She  wouldn't  tell 
how  she  got  to  the  Rue  Charron,  some  instinct  still  sealing 
her  lips  as  to  her  husband's  share  in  the  adventure,  and 
inventing  a  tale  that  seemed  to  satisfy  the  requirements  of 
the  interview.  No  crime  had  been  actually  committed 
though  all  the  circumstances  were  suspicious.  The  officer 
told  her  that  a  search  would  be  made  for  the  man  named 
Tricot  and  that  Madame  Horton  should  hold  herself  in 
readiness  to  appear  against  him,  if  necessary,  at  some 
future  time. 

The  return  of  Harry  Horton,  her  husband,  the  next 
afternoon,  contrite  and  humility  itself,  was  unpleasant, 
but  they  reached  an  understanding,  pending  the  return  of 
Barry  Quinlevin  from  Ireland.  She  kept  the  secret  of  her 
visit  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  Charron  and  her  knowledge 
of  the  escape  of  the  prisoner.  She  saw  that  her  husband 
was  worried  and  furtive  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  exact- 
ing from  him  a  promise  not  to  molest  her.  In  return  she 
145 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

promised  silence,  and  he  departed  with  every  protestation 
of  friendship  and  good  will,  somewhat  reassured  as  to  her 
intentions. 

As  to  Jim  Horton,  the  twin  brother  who  had  worked 
such  havoc  in  her  life,  Moira  was  very  much  troubled  and 
disturbed.  The  hurt  to  her  pride  was  grievous  but  the  joy 
she  had  in  the  very  thought  of  him  seemed  to  assuage  all 
wounds.  She  knew  now  that  if  he  had  died  in  the  house  in 
the  Rue  Charron  that  night  she  would  have  worshiped 
him  all  her  life  as  a  martyr  to  their  unfortunate  affection. 
And  the  memories  of  Jim  Horton's  tenderness  on  the  day 
of  their  parting,  the  gentleness  of  his  abnegation,  his 
struggle  against  the  temptation  of  her  nearness — all  these 
thoughts  of  him  obliterating  the  horrors  that  had  fol- 
lowed, returned  and  engulfed  her  with  pity.  Their  love 
had  seemed  so  perfect  a  thing!  But  now — a  mockery! 

She  felt  very  friendless  in  the  big  studio,  very  much 
alone.  And  yet — could  she  confess  to  her  father  her  love 
for  this  brother  who  had  come  in  and  taken  Harry's  place? 
The  hurt  to  her  pride  burned  again  angrily.  Her  father, 
like  herself,  had  been  deceived  by  the  brother  at  the  hos- 
pital and  what  sympathy  could  she  expect  from  him?  He 
would  be  furious  at  the  deception  that  had  been  practiced 
upon  them  both,  and  would  perhaps  take  Harry's  part 
against  her. 

Moira  clenched  her  hands  and  stared  long  into  the 
gray  cinders  of  the  fireplace.  If  it  was  to  be  war,  she 
would  fight.  She  had  married  Harry  in  a  moment  of  pity 
because  her  father  had  wished  it,  but  the  understanding 
had  been  definite.  And  now  she  would  rather  run  away — 
even  from  her  father — than  to  fulfill  the  terrible  vows  she 
had  taken.  Jim  Horton — she  wanted  to  hear  his  side  of 
the  story.  Reviving  faith  in  him  made  her  sure  that  if 
he  were  alive  he  would  come  to  her  and  tell  her  every- 
thing. .  .  . 

146 


CONFESSIONS 


A  cautious  step  on  the  stair  outside — a  knock.  She 
went  over  quickly,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  opened  the 
door,  then  stood  staring1,  unable  to  speak. 

"It's  I,  Moira,"  said  Jim  Horton  gently. 

"You—,"  she  faltered. 

"I  said  that  I  would  come  back,  but  I — I  was  detained," 
he  said  coolly. 

If  he  had  expected  her  to  be  surprised  at  his  appearance 
out  of  uniform  she  gave  no  sign  of  it.  She  opened  wide 
the  door  and  stood  aside. 

"I — I  know,"  she  murmured. 

"I  won't  stay  long,  but  there  were  some  things  I  wanted 
you  to  know — some  facts  in  extenuation  of  my  conduct, 
that  may  make  you  think  less  bitterly  of  me " 

"You  look  ill,"  she  said,  staring  at  him.  "It  is  all  too 
horrible  to  think  about " 

"Horrible,  if  you  like,"  he  said  slowly,  misinterpreting 
her  meaning,  "but  done  in  a  weak  moment  with  a  good 
motive " 

"Oh,  not  that.  I  mean,  what  they  did  to  you — the 
danger  you  passed  through " 

"You  know  of  that?" 

"Yes.     I  followed  Harry,  and  got  the  police " 

"It  was  you?     Good  God!" 

"It  was  the  least  that  I  could  do — after  I  found  out — 
from  him — what  had  happened." 

He  stared  at  her  in  incomprehension. 

"You  mean  that  he  confessed  to  you?" 

She  nodded  and  then  laughed  nervously. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  keeping  you  standing  on 
the  door-sill — like  a  model.  If  you've  much  to  say  you'd 
better  say  it  sitting,  Jim  Horton." 

He  started  and  stared  at  her,  but  she  had  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  led  the  way  with  an  assumption  of 
147 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

carelessness  to  the  chairs  by  the  dead  fire,  as  though  aware 
of  its  symbolism. 

"You  know— the  truth?" 

She  shrugged.  "What  Harry — what  my  husband — has 
told  me,  no  more — no  less." 

He  marveled  at  her  ease,  at  the  cruelty  of  her  chosen 
phrases.  And  yet  he  could  not  cavil  at  them.  It  was 
clear  that  she  meant  that  there  were  to  be  no  further 
misunderstandings,  that  she  was  shifting  the  burden  to  his 
shoulders  where  it  belonged.  The  sense  of  his  culpability 
weighed  upon  him  and  he  did  not  look  at  her,  and  so  he 
missed  the  quick,  anxious  sensitive  glances  that  searched 
his  face  for  the  truth  in  his  heart.  But  he  bent  his  head 
forward  and  stared  into  the  ashes  that  had  glowed  so 
warmly  a  few  nights  ago. 

"I  have  come  to  speak  the  truth,"  he  began,  his  voice 
deep,  resonant  and  trembling  with  his  emotion.  "A  visit 
of  confession  and  renunciation " 

"It's  rather  late,  isn't  it?"  she  said  in  a  hard  little 
voice  that  he  scarcely  recognized  as  her  own.  He  knew 
that  he  deserved  this  of  her  and  more,  but  it  cut  him 
none  the  less. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  went  on  firmly.  "And 
then  you  shall  judge  for  yourself.  I  owe  it  to  you  to  tell 
the  facts,  but  I  owe  it  to  myself,  too." 

She  nodded  and  sat.  And  so,  quietly,  neglecting  no 
detail,  he  told  her  of  Harry,  from  the  moment  of  their 
meeting  on  the  battlefield  until  they  had  met  outside  in  the 
Rue  de  Tavennes.  He  heard  Moira  gasp  at  the  mention  of 
Harry's  cowardice,  but  he  went  on  to  the  end,  without 
pause. 

"Something  of  what  followed,  you  know,"  he  went  on 

quietly.     "I  tried  to  tell  them  the  truth  in  the  hospital. 

I  said  I  wasn't  Harry  Horton.     They  didn't  believe  me. 

They  thought  I  was  still  out  of  my  head.    And  so  I  lay 

148 


CONFESSIONS 


there  for  a  while,  silent.  I  think  I  must  have  been  pretty 
weak." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  gather  his  thoughts. 

"There  were  some  letters  to  Harry.  I  had  no  right  to 
read  them.  But  I  did.  A  letter  from  you  to  him — about 
your  marriage — showing  what  a  farce  it  was.  A  letter 

from  Barry  Quinlevin "     He  paused  and  frowned. 

"It  was  an  invasion  of  your  privacy — and  his — 
but  you  were  nothing  to  me — then.  I  was  sure  that  I 
would  never  meet  you.  I  thought  that  I  would  wait  a 
few  days  before  I  tried  to  tell  the  officers  of  the  hospital 
who  I  was.  It  was  a  hard  thing  to  do — because  it  meant 
that  I  would  have  to  pay  the  penalty  of  a  military  crime." 

"But  sure,  after  what  you'd  done,"  Moira's  voice  broke 
in  clearly,  "they  couldn't  be  punishing  you " 

"Disgraceful  imprisonment — and  for  Harry — the  pen- 
alty of  desertion  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.  You  see 
there  were  two  of  us  to  consider.'* 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"Then  you  came — suddenly — without  warning."  His 
voice  sank  to  a  deep  murmur  and  he  bent  his  head.  "It 
was  a  moment  for  a  decision.  I  hadn't  it.  I  was  weak.  I 
let  you  believe  that  I  was  your  husband.  It — it  seemed 
the  easiest  way  just  then.  God  knows  I  meant  you  no 
harm.  And  God  knows  I've  suffered  for  it." 

He  rose  and  leaned  upon  the  mantel,  his  face  turned 
away  from  her,  summoning  courage  for  the  harder  thing 
that  he  still  had  to  say.  "And  there's  something  else, 
that  made  me  do  what  I  did "  he  began. 

"Something  more?"  he  heard  her  question.  "What  do 
you  mean?" 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"It's  hard  to  tell  you— but  I  must."    And  then,  "Have 
you  ever  heard  of  the  Due  de  Vautrin?"  he  asked. 
149 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Yes,"  she  uttered  in  bewildered  tone,  "the  name  is 
familiar  to  me.  But  what ?" 

"Mr.  Quinlevin — has  mentioned  him?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Ar  man  he  met  many  years  ago  in 
Ireland.  But  why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  his  life  and  yours  are  bound  up  in  each 
other " 

"Mine?" 

He  paused  painfully. 

"Moira,  perhaps  I'm  breaking  all  the  ties  in  your  life 
that  you  had  thought  most  sacred,  but  I've  got  to  tell  you 
what  I  know." 

"I  don't  understand — you  frighten  me '* 

"God  knows  I've  given  you  pain  enough  already.  I'm 
a  bird  of  ill-omen.  But  I'm  going  to  go  on,  if  you'll  let 
me." 

She  sat  motionless,  her  strained  white  hands  gripping 
the  chair  arm. 

"Under  the  cover  of  the  dressing  table,  in  the  room 
there,  where  I  slept,  are  the  two  letters  that  I  read  in 
my  bed  in  the  hospital — the  one  from  you — the  one  from 
Barry  Quinlevin.  I  left  them  there  when  I  went  away. 
Unless  some  one  has  removed  them,  they  should  be  there 
now » 

In  obedience  to  the  suggestion,  she  rose  and  went  quickly 
out  into  the  hall  and  into  the  deserted  room.  Harry  had 
not  entered  it  nor  had  she  even  told  him  of  the  valises 
containing  his  impedimenta  that  had  been  sent  down  from 
headquarters.  The  letters  were  there.  Trembling  with 
uncertainty  she  found  them  and  glanced  at  the  familiar 
handwriting,  her  own  and  her  father's,  and  then  came 
back  to  the  door  of  the  studio.  There  she  stood  a  mo- 
ment, weighing  the  letters  in  her  hands.  Jim  Horton 
stood  as  she  had  left  him,  leaning  upon  the  mantel-shelf, 
his  gaze  upon  the  extinguished  fire.  It  seemed  that  lost 
150 


CONFESSIONS 


in  his  own  gloomy  reverie  he  had  already  forgotten  her. 
Never  in  all  the  weeks  that  she  had  known  him,  not  even 
when  he  had  lain  in  his  hospital  bed — had  he  seemed  a 
more  pitiful  figure  than  now — needing  her  as  she — God 
help  her — needed  him.  What  did  it  matter  what  this  let- 
ter contained?  In  her  heart  she  knew  that  the  only  thing 
that  mattered  to  her  was  the  love  that  this  man  bore  her. 
She  had  recognized  it  in  the  deep  tones  of  his  voice,  which 
had  thrilled  her  again,  and  in  the  attitude  of  submission 
which  had  anticipated  the  change  in  her  sentiments. 

It  was  a  moment  for  decisions,  like  his  moment  in  the 
hospital.  She  had  only  to  tell  him  to  go  and  she  knew 
that  he  would  have  obeyed  her.  But  like  Jim  Horton, 
she  no  longer  had  the  strength.  Some  instinct  told  her 
that  here  in  this  outcast  soldier — this  splendid  outcast — 
was  a  rock  that  she  could  cling  to.  ... 

She  glanced  over  the  stair  and  then  entering  the  studio 
quietly,  slowly  approached  him,  letters  in  hand. 

"You  wish  me  to  read ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  please,  Moira." 

She  glanced  at  him  and  then  sank  into  the  armchair  and 
opened  Barry  Quinlevin's  letter.  For  a  long  while  there 
was  no  sound  but  the  rustle  of  the  paper  in  her  fingers. 
At  last  he  heard  her  stir  slightly  and  glanced  up  at  her. 
Her  face  was  deathly  pale. 

"My  father — de  V — 'The  money  has  stopped  coming' — 
What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  asked.  "And  what  are  those 
papers?  What  is  the  agency  working  against  him?  And 
what  does  he  mean  by  putting  the  screws  on?" 

"It  means  that  Barry  Quinlevin  is — is  blackmailing  the 
Due  de  Vautrin — has  been  doing  so  for  years,"  he  said  in 
a  suppressed  tone. 

She  rose  and  faced  him,  her  breast  heaving. 

"Blackmail!     My  father " 

He  bowed  his  head. 

151 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Unfortunately  it's  the  truth.  He  spoke  to  me  of  it 
in  the  hospital — thinking  I  was  Harry " 

She  raised  the  letter  again  and  read. 

"I  can't  believe — I  can't ,"  but  her  words  trailed  off 

into  silence  as  she  read  again  the  damning  phrases. 

His  heart  was  full  of  tenderness  and  pity  for  her  and 
he  caught  her  by  the  hand.  "Moira,  dear,"  he  murmured, 
"I  wouldn't  have  spoken  of  this — but  you  are  involved — 
I  couldn't  understand  for  a  long  while.  They're  using 
you  as  a  cat's-paw — a  snare — a  stool-pigeon.  Perhaps 
you  don't  even  know  the  meaning  of  the  words — it's  too 
hideous !" 

"Using  me?"  She  seemed  unaware  of  her  fingers  still  in 
his.  "How  can  they  use  me?  I  know  nothing  whatever 
of  this  affair." 

He  led  her  to  her  chair  again  and  made  her  sit. 

"Listen,"  he  said  gently,  "and  I  will  tell  you  all  that 
I've  found  out  about  it " 

"I  can't  believe —    Who  has  told  you?" 

"Piquette  Morin " 

"Piquette — ?"     Her  brows  drew  together - 

"A  friend  of — of  your  husband's,"  he  said.  "It  was 
she  who  first  discovered  our  dual  identity  in  the  Cafe  Javet 
— a  friend  of  Harry's — who  took  pity  on  me." 

"The  woman — who — who — helped  you  to  escape?" 
she  gasped,  awakening. 

"Yes.  She  shared  the  secrets  of  this  intrigue.  And 
when  they  knocked  me  out,  she  guessed  the  truth,  found 
out  where  they  had  put  me  and  went  in  through  the  pas- 
sage from  the  river.  It  was  she  who  took  me  back  to  her 
apartment  and  nursed  me." 

"Oh,"  she  faltered.  "I— I  see.  But  what  reason  have 
you  to  believe  that  she  speaks  the  truth?" 

He  had  taken  his  place  by  the  mantel  again.     "Unfor- 
tunately— I  had  already  proved  it  by  the  mouth  of  Harry 
152 


CONFESSIONS 


himself."  He  broke  off  and  met  her  piteous  eyes  squarely. 
"Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  cared  what  they  did,  if  they — if  you 
hadn't  been  a  part  of  the  plan.  I  would  have  told  you 
who  I  was  the  other  night  and  gone — away.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  too  cruel.  Barry  Quinlevin  is  a  strange  man.  He 
loves  you — perhaps.  He  wants  to  see  you  rich — happy — 
but  he  became  desperate  when  the  source  of  his  income  was 
cut  off " 

"The  Irish  rents ?" 

"There  were  no  Irish  rents,  Moira.  The  source  of  his 
income,  all  these  years — and  yours — has  been — the  Due 
de  Vautrin — hush  money  paid  to  keep  a  secret " 

"Holy  Virgin— !    Then  I ?" 

She  paused,  bewildered  by  the  very  terror  of  her 
thoughts. 

"Listen,  Moira.  You  must  know  it  all.  As  nearly  as  I 
can  get  it,  the  story  is  this.  Twenty-five  years  ago  the 
Due  de  Vautrin  married  an  Irish  heiress  from  Athlone  in 
Galway  named  Mary  Callonby,  receiving  with  her  her 
immense  dot,  with  the  provision  from  her  father's  will  that 
if  any  child  was  born,  the  fortune  should  go  to  that  child 
in  the  event  of  the  mother's  death." 

"Callonby!"  whispered  Moira  half  to  herself.  "Ath- 
lone !" 

"The  Due  de  Vautrin  was  a  beast  and  mistreated  his 
wife,  so  that  she  ran  away  from  him  into  Ireland,  where 
a  daughter  was  born  to  her — Mary  Callonby  dying  in 
childbirth."  And  then  softly,  "Do  you  follow  me,  Moira? 
It's  very  important." 

"I'm  trying — to  follow  you,"  she  murmured  painfully. 

"When  Mary  Callonby  left  the  Due,  de  Vautrin  went 
upon  a  voyage  around  the  world,  enjoying  himself  with 
her  money  for  two  years,  and  unaware  of  the  death  of  his 
wife  or  of  the  birth  of  his  little  daughter,  who  was  cared 

for  and  nursed  by  a  woman  named  Nora  Burke " 

153 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Nora  Burke !"  Moira  had  started  up  suddenly  in  her 
chair,  her  eyes  wide  with  sudden  comprehension. 

"You  remember  her "  he  said* 

"My  old  nurse !" 

"Yes.  It's  here  that  the  story  involves  your  fortunes 
and — and  Barry  Quinlevin's.  The  infant  daughter  of  the 
Due  de  Vautrin  died  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  without 
his  being  aware  of  it — without  his  even  being  aware  that 
a  daughter  had  been  born.  The  death  of  this  child  was 
kept  a  secret " 

"But  why?  Why?"  pleaded  Moira,  a  glimmering  of 
the  intrigue  coming  to  her. 

Jim  Horton  turned  away  again. 

"Because  it  was  necessary  that  the  Due  de  Vautrin 
should  remain  in  ignorance  of  it." 

"Holy  Virgin!    You  mean  that  Nora ?" 

"Nora  Burke  and  Barry  Quinlevin.  You  were  of  the 
same  age  as  the  child  of  the  Due  de  Vautrin.  There  were 
few  neighbors.  Your  mother  had  also  died  in  childbirth. 
Nora  Burke  came  into  Barry  Quinlevin's  house  as  nurse." 

"Oh,  it  is  impossible!"  gasped  Moira.  "I  can't — I 
can't  believe  it." 

"It  is  what  I'm  to  help  you  to  prove." 

"But  there  must  be  papers — birth  certificates — wit- 
nesses  " 

"Perhaps.  I  don't  know,  Moira.  All  of  these  things 
seem  uncertain.  The  idea  is  that  Barry  Quinlevin,  taking 
pity  on  the  fatherless  child  of  the  Due,  and  mourning  his 
own  child  that  had  died,  had  brought  the  little  girl  into  his 
own  house  to  keep  her  until  the  Due's  return " 

"Oh!     It  is  infamous!" 

"That  was  the  way  Nora  Burke  came  into  the  house  of 
Barry  Quinlevin,  and  that  was  the  way  you  became  the 
daughter  and  heiress  of  Mary  Callonby." 

"I— her  heiress?" 

154 


CONFESSIONS 


He  nodded. 

"I  do  not  know  all  the  facts,  but  it  seems  that  when  the 
Due  de  Vautrin  returned  to  Paris,  he  was  met  by  Barry 
Quinlevin  with  proofs  of  his  daughter's  existence.  It  was 
to  the  Due's  interest  to  keep  the  matter  secret,  since  the 
income  from  the  Callonby  fortune  which  he  enjoyed  would 
of  course  go  to  the  child.  And  from  that  day  to  this  the 
matter  has  been  kept  a  secret  and  Barry  Quinlevin  has 
been  paid  for  keeping  it." 

Moira  had  risen  and  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  studio. 

"It  is  too  horrible — it  bewilders  me.  Who  told  you  all 
this?" 

"Piquette  Morin— Harry  told  her." 

"And— and  Harry ?" 

"His  interests  and  yours  were  the  same." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a  moment.  "Wait," 
she  gasped.  "I  must  think — think." 

So  Jim  Horton  was  silent,  watching  her  anguish  with 
pity  and  anxiety.  But  at  last  she  grew  calmer  and  sank 
into  the  chair,  reading  Barry  Quinlevin's  letter  to  Harry 
again. 

"And  yet  this  might  refer  to  something — something 
else — "  she  pleaded,  catching  at  any  straw  that  would  save 
her  from  this  disgrace. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  wish  I  could  reassure  you — but  I  can't.  The  facts 
are  too  clear." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  breathing  hard. 

"It  was  terrible  for  you  to  have  to  tell  me  this." 

"Yes — but  you  understand  that  I  had  to,  don't  you?" 

She  bowed  her  head  and  he  went  on. 

"And  now  I  only  want  you  to  tell  me  how  I  can  help 

you — how  I  can  make  things  easier " 

155 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I "   She  halted  again, 

intimidated  at  the  thought  of  her  father.    And  then — 

"If  I  were  only  sure.  ...  Of  course  the  Due  de  Vau- 
trin  must  be  told  at  once." 

"There's  no  hurry.  You  must  think  it  over.  Verify 
my  statements,  when  you  can " 

"Yes,  yes.  I  must — or  refute  them.    I  see  that.'* 

"I  want  to  help  you.     I'll  do  anything " 

"Yes.  I  know — "  she  paused  again.  "Whom  can  I 
trust  now?" 

He  caught  her  fingers  and  pressed  them  softly  to  his 
lips. 

"It  is  a  terrible  situation  for  you — but  you  can't  go 
on  as  a  partner  in  this  intrigue " 

"No,  of  course — I  must  be  finding  out — speaking  to — 
to  him — to  my  father — "  and  then,  turning  to  him, 
"Whom  can  I  trust — unless  it's  you !" 

He  relinquished  her  fingers  and  turned  away. 

"I  deceived  you,  Moira — cheated  you " 

"That  doesn't  matter  now — nothing  matters " 

"You  mean — that  you  will  forgive  me?" 

He  leaned  forward  toward  hca*,  searching  her  face 
•eagerly. 

"Yes — yes,"  she  whispered. 

"Moira!" 

"God  help  me  I    I've  the  need  of  you." 

He  fell  to  his  knees  beside  the  chair  and  took  her  in  his 
arms.  Her  trouble  was  so  great — the  crisis  in  her  life  so 
tragic ! 

"I've  tried  to  make  myself  believe  I  didn't  care — ,"  she 
went  on,  whispering,  "that  everything  should  be  as  it  was 
before  you  came.  I  tried " 

"You  poor  child " 

"But  in  spite  of  myself — in  spite  of  everything — my 
faith  in  you  is  just  the  same." 
156 


CONFESSIONS 


"Thank  God  for  that.     We  must  find  a  way  out " 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"No.  There's  no  way  out — I'm  sure  of  that — for  me 
— and  you.  It's  wrong — all  wrong " 

But  she  did  not  refuse  him  her  lips  now  and  he  held 
her  close  in  his  arms. 

"Moira,"  he  whispered.     «It  was  meant  to  be." 

"It's  wrong — all  wrong,"  she  repeated.  And  then  with 
a  sigh,  "Its  very  sweetness — is — terrible " 

He  touched  her  brow  tenderly  with  his  lips  and  then 
gently  released  her. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

But  her  fingers  still  held  him. 

"No — no — not  yet — not  just  yet,  Jim.  This  is  our 
moment — yours  and  mine.  And  I've  been  wanting  you 

"You  knew  that  I'd  come  back  to  you,  didn't  you,, 
dear?" 

"I've  been  praying  that  you  would — you  won't  be 
going,  Jim — away — as  you  said  you  would?" 

"No,  dear — not — not  if  you  need  me — not  if  you  want 
me.  But  I'm  a  nondescript  now — a  deserter — an  out- 
cast." 

"The  cruelty  of  it!     You!" 

"I  got  what  I  deserved,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"And  Harry?  I  can't  be  staying  here  if  he's  going^ 
to  be  here,  Jim.  The  very  touch  of  his  fingers  .  .:  .  the 
sight  of  him,  knowing  what  I  do " 

"He  won't  dare — I  would  have  him  broken " 

"And  give  yourself  up  to  the  Military  Police.  No* 
You  can't  be  thinking  of  that.  I'm  not  afraid  of  him — 
nor  of  my  father.  But — they  can't  be  disgracing  you- 
You  must  keep  in  hiding.  I  see  it  all  now.  But  you  won't 
be  going  away,  Jim.  Promise  me  that  you  won't  go 
away." 

157 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"And  you'll  let  me  see  you?" 

"Yes.  I  must  see  you.  I  can't  let  you  go — not  yet,  Jim. 
I  know  it's  wrong.  I  don't  care  about  the  wrong  to 
Harry,  but  I  do  think  of  the  wrong  I  do  myself  and  you. 
My  love  for  you  has  been  so  clean — so  beautiful,  Jim. 
it  can't  be  anything  else — for  either  of  us." 

"I  love  you,  Moira  dear.     I  needn't  tell  you  how " 

"Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know  already,  Jim?  But  it's 
so  hopeless " 

"Your  marriage — a  joke!     It  means  nothing " 

"A  hideous  joke — but  a  marriage  just  the  same!" 

"You  can't  be  tied  to  this  man  always " 

"I  am  tied  to  him.  Oh,  Jim — !"  she  broke  off  in  her 
despair.  "Don't  be  making  it  more  difficult — don't  be 
pleading  with  me  for  that — it's  impossible.  I'd  like  to 
be  going  with  you — away — somewhere  just  you  and  I — 
but  I  can't " 

"I'll  have  patience.     Some  day " 

"No,  dear.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  It  can't  be,  ever. 
I  have  sworn " 

She  stopped  and  they  both  listened,  Moira  started — 
frightened.  From  somewhere  down  the  stairway  outside 
came  the  sounds  of  a  laugh  and  of  voices  in  conversation. 

"Harry!"  she  gasped.  And  with  quick  presence  of 
mind  ran  to  the  door,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  then 
listened.  "My  father,  too — .  They  mustn't  find  you 
here." 

"Yes,"  said  Jim  coolly.  "I  think  we'd  better  have  this 
thing  out — here  and  now." 

«No — no,"  she  whispered  tensely.  "It  would  be  the  end 
of  all  things.  Not  yet.  I  must  have  time  to  think " 

Already  there  was  a  knock  upon  the  door.     Moira  had 
caught  Jim  by  the  arm  and  was  hurrying  him  toward  a 
closet  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
158 


CONFESSIONS 


"In  here,  quickly,"  she  whispered.  "You  must.  My 
father  will  go  in  the  other  rooms." 

"But,  Moira " 

"As  you  love  me — please — ,"  she  pleaded,  pushing  him 
in,  shutting  the  door.  Then  breathless,  she  turned  and 
faced  the  door  into  the  hallway* 


CHAPTER  XII 

QUINLEVIN  SPEAKS 

A  MOMENT  longer  she  waited,  summoning  calm  and 
resolution,  when  the  knocking  on  the  door  began 
again  and  her  name  was  called. 

"Coming,"  she  replied,  looking  around  the  studio 
keenly.  And  then  catching  sight  of  Jim  Horton's  hat, 
whisked  it  under  the  couch  and  then  opened  the  door. 

Barry  Quinlevin  came  in,  Harry  carrying  his  bag. 
With  a  gay  laugh  he  caught  Moira  into  his  arms. 

"Well, — it's  joyful  I  am  to  be  back,  dusty  and  un- 
washed, but  none  the  less  glad  to  be  here.  How  are  ye, 
child?  By  the  amount  of  time  ye  took  opening  the  door, 
I  thought  ye  might  be  dead " 

"I'm  very  tired — ,"  she  murmured,  "I've  not  been  up 
to  the  mark " 

He  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her  in  the  dim  light  from 
the  gas  jet. 

"A  little  peaky — eh — too  much  moping  in  the  dark. 
Let's  have  some  lights — and  a  drink  of  the  Irish.  'Twill 
do  none  of  us  harm." 

He  moved  into  the  studio  and  Harry  Horton  set  the 
bag  down. 

"Did  you  have  a  successful  trip?"  asked  Moira,  putting 
more  color  into  her  voice  than  she  felt. 

"So,  so,"  said  Quinlevin.  "A  bottle,  Moira — and  some 
glasses  and  water,"  and  when  she  had  obeyed,  "There — 
the  very  sight  of  it's  already  making  a  new  man  of  me. 
Harry,  boy — yer  health." 

Moira  sat  and  listened  while  he  described  the  incidents 
160 


QUINLEFIN  SPEAKS 


of  his  trip.  Harry  could  not  meet  her  look,  but  she  saw 
that  he  drank  sparingly.  As  for  her  father,  she  watched 
him  in  silence,  aware  of  his  flamboyant  grace  and  charm, 
again  incredulous  as  to  the  things  she  knew  of  him.  But 
his  letter  to  Harry  in  her  shirtwaist  seemed  to  be  burning 
the  fair  skin  of  her  breast  to  remind  her  of  his  venality. 

On  his  way  to  the  bottle  he  pinched  her  pale  cheeks  be- 
tween his  long  fingers.  "Where's  yer  spirit,  girl?  Ye 
look  as  though  ye'd  been  hearing  a  banshee.  A  fine  hus- 
band ye've  got,  and  all,  to  be  putting  lilies  in  yer  cheeks 
instead  of  roses !" 

"She  stays  in  the  studio  too  much,"  put  in  Harry,  un- 
easily. 

"A  good  jumper  and  a  few  stone  walls  of  County  Gal- 
way  would  set  ye  right  in  a  jiffy.  We'll  be  taking  ye 
there,  one  day  soon,  I'm  thinking,  if  ye  don't  come  to  life. 
What  is  it,  child?" 

"Oh— nothing  -I'm  just  tired." 

He  took  his  glass  and  held  it  to  the  light  with  a  critical 
air. 

"Maybe  it's  better  if  ye  go  to  bed  then.  I'll  just  clean 
up  a  bit  and  then  come  back  and  have  a  talk  with  you, 
Harry  boy." 

And  finishing  his  glass,  he  took  up  his  bag  and  wen£ 
into  his  room  to  cleanse  himself,  leaving  Moira  alone  with 
Harry.  She  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  sat  wondering 
what  ruse  she  could  find  to  get  rid  of  them. 

Harry  fumbled  at  his  glass  nervously. 

"You're  going  to  tell  him?"  he  asked. 

She  shrugged.  "Of  course,"  she  said  coolly,  "the  farce 
has  gone  on  long  enough." 

"Yes,"  he  muttered.  "Perhaps  you're  right.  I'll  tell 
him — myself — to-night." 

"Thanks,"  she  said  quietly,  "it  would  be  better." 

.They  seemed  to  have  very  little  to  say.  She  saw  Harry 
161 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

furtively  looking  at  her,  but  she  was  oblivious  of  him,  for 
her  thoughts  were  beyond  him,  over  his  head,  in  the  paint 
closet  where  Jim  Horton  sat  uncomfortably,  awaiting  the 
moment  of  release.  But  how  could  she  effect  it  now? 
It  seemed  almost  enough  of  luck  to  have  hidden  Jim  Hor- 
ton's  hat  before  they  had  entered.  She  knew  that  his 
predicament  was  hardly  to  his  liking  and  in  spite  of  her 
entreaties,  feared  that  any  moment  he  might  be  opening 
the  door  and  facing  the  situation. 

And  when  Barry  Quinlevin  returned  to  the  room  in  a 
moment,  his  face  shining  with  his  vigorous  ablutions,  any 
immediate  hopes  she  may  have  had  of  Jim's  release  were 
dashed  to  the  ground. 

"Ye'd  better  be  going  to  yer  room,  child,  and  get  yer 
beauty  sleep,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  talk  to  Harry." 

That  he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her  husband  was  evi- 
dent, and  the  request  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
command.  Still  wondering  what  she  had  better  do,  she 
got  up  and  moved  slowly  toward  the  door  into  the  kitchen. 
They  would  talk — she  would  watch  at  the  door  and  listen. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  languidly,  "perhaps  I'll  feel  better 
if  I  lie  down  for  awhile — "  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  her.  But  she  did  not  go  into  her 
room.  All  alive  with  uncertainty  and  apprehension,  she 
crouched  by  the  door,  listening  intently.  The  keyhole  was 
large.  Through  it  she  could  see  the  closet  upon  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  studio  where  Jim  was  concealed,  and  what 
they  said  she  could  hear  distinctly. 

"Well,  Harry  boy,"  said  Quinlevin,  "here  we  are  again, 
and  with  Nora  close  at  hand,  ready  for  the  'coup.'  There 
can't  be  any  haggling  or  boggling  now.  A  clean  million 
we'll  get  from  it,  or  my  name's  not  B.  Q." 

"Did  you  have  any  trouble  getting  Nora  to  come?" 

"A  little — but  five  thousand  pounds  settles  her  business. 
162 


QUINLEFIN  SPEAKS 


Nora  was  always  a  bit  of  rogue,  but  she  couldn't  deny 
real  genius.  And  then,  a  bit  of  blarney " 

"But  the  birth  certificate " 

"Here — ,"  producing  his  pocket  case,  "a  little  mildewed 
and  rumpled  from  hiding  in  the  mattresses,  and  the  like, 
but  still  quite  legible.  See,  Patrice — a  little  hard  to  read, 
ye  see.  Patricia  it  is.  Patricia  Madeleine  Aulnay  de  Vau- 
trin.  Female,  me  boy.  Born  August  7th,  in  the  year  of 
Our  Lord,  1897 — signed  by  the  Doctor — Dominick  Finu- 
cane — and  attested  by  the  Parish  priest — a  little  illegible 
in  certain  notable  places,  but  all  quite  straight  and 
proper.  He  can't  go  back  of  that." 

"And  the  other  servant — who  knew — ?" 

"Dead  as  a  herring — a  fortnight  ago — ye'll  admit  most 
fortuitously — for  I  can't  keep  the  whole  of  County  Gal- 
way  under  my  hat." 

Harry  Horton  frowned. 

"No.    And  you  can't  keep  Moira  there  either." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"Merely  that  she'll  put  a  spoke  in  your  wheel  if  you're 
not  careful." 

Quinlevin  laughed. 

"I  won't  worry  about  that  bridge  until  I  come  to  it. 
She  won't  object  to  taking  her  place  in  the  world  as  the 
Duchesse  de  Vautrin " 

He  broke  off  abruptly.  "What's  that?  Did  Moira 
call?" 

"I  didn't  hear  anything." 

"I've  got  the  fidgets,  then.  I'd  be  having  to  give  her 
up  if  Monsieur  the  Due  should  take  a  fancy  to  her — but 
ye  needn't  fear.  He  won't.  He's  too  self-centered,  and 
well  out  of  it  at  a  million  francs.  Ah,  he'll  wriggle  and 
squirm  a  bit,  on  the  hook,  but  he'll  pay  in  the  end — or  we'll 
gaff  him  for  the  whole  estate."  He  stopped  and  carefully 
163 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

cut  the  end  from  a  cigar.  "D'ye  think,  by  any  chance, 
that  Piquette  Morin  could  have  done  any  talking?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  four  months,  ago  Monsieur  the  Due  was  in 
Ireland  asking  questions." 

"Who  told  you  this?" 

"Nora  Burke.  He  got  nothing  from  her.  She  knew 
which  side  her  bread  was  buttered  on.  But  that's  what 
made  her  squeamish  when  my  allowance  stopped  coming  to 
her." 

"I  see.    And  you've  paid  her  something?" 

"Yes.  And  the  devil's  own  time  I  had  getting  it  to- 
gether. I'm  thinking  I've  squared  accounts  with  you  al- 
ready in  all  this  business." 

But  Harry  Horton  had  gotten  up  and  poured  himself 
out  a  stiff  drink  of  the  whisky,  which  he  drained  hur- 
riedly. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  muttered  uneasily. 

"What?" 

"This  de  Vautrin  business." 

Quinlevin  calmly  stared  at  him. 

"Yer  feet  aren't  getting  cold  now?" 

Harry  took  a  pace  or  two,  trying  to  find  his  words. 
And  then, 

"Things  haven't  been  going  right,  here — since — er — 
since  you  left." 

"I  see,"  said  Quinlevin  with  a  shrug.  "You  and  Moira 
haven't  been  hitting  it  off " 

"No.     And  it's  worse  than  that." 

Barry  Quinlevin  leaned  forward,  his  shaggy  brows 
thatched  unpleasantly. 

"What  the  devil  are  ye  talking  about?" 

"I— Pve  got  to  tell  you." 

"Ye'd  be  obliging  me  if  ye  would." 

Harry  met  the  sharp  look  of  the  older  man  and  then 
164 


QUINLEVIN  SPEAKS 


his  gaze  flickered  and  fell  as  he  sank  into  his  chair  again. 

"You — you've  heard  me  speak  of  my  twin  brother, 
Jim  ?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

"The  railroad  man  ye  quarreled  with  over  the  trifling 
matter  of  an  estate.  Well,  what  of  him?" 

"He's  turned  up — here— in — Paris." 

"What  have  you  got  to  do  with  him?" 

"More  than  you  think.  I've  got  to  tell  you  what  has 
happened — and  it's  plenty.  It's  been  H and  re- 
peat. D him  P» 

"At  least,"  laughed  the  Irishman,  "he  seems  to  have 
gained  no  new  place  in  yer  affection." 

"No — nor  will  he  in  yours  when  you  have  the  facts." 

"Go  on.     I'm  listening." 

And  slowly,  halting  here  and  there  for  a  word  or  a 
phrase  that  would  put  a  better  construction  on  his  own 
share  in  the  affair,  he  told  Quinlevin  of  the  substitution  of 
Jim  Horton  for  himself  and  of  the  events  that  had  fol- 
lowed, including  his  return  to  Paris  and  the  desperate 
means  he  had  taken  to  regain  his  own  identity.  Of 
Moira  he  spoke  nothing,  but  as  the  situation  was  revealed 
with  all  its  hazards  to  the  success  of  their  intrigue,  from 
an  attitude  of  polite  attention  with  .which  he  had  listened 
at  first,  Quinlevin  became  eagerly  and  anxiously  absorbed, 
interjecting  question  after  question,  while  his  iridescent 
eyes  glowed  under  his  frowning  brows  and  his  long,  bony 
fingers  clutched  his  chair  arm.  By  degrees,  the  full  mean- 
ing of  the  ^revelation  came  to  him — its  relation  to  Harry's 
future,  to  the  matter  of  the  Due,  to  Moira.  But  as  he 
grew  more  furious,  he  grew  more  pale,  more  calm,  and 
listened  in  a  silence  punctuated  by  brief  questions,  to  the 
conclusion  of  the  story,  a  little  contemptuous  of  the  ner- 
vousness of  his  companion,  reading  below  the  thin  veneer 
of  braggadocio  the  meanings  that  the  younger  man  strove 
to  conceal. 

165 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"So,"  he  said  coolly,  "ye've  gone  and  let  us  all  in  for  a 
nice  mess  of  broth!  Shell-shock!  Humph!  And  ye'll  let 
a  man  be  tearing  the  uniform  off  yer  very  back — winning 
yer  honors  for  ye." 

He  rose  and  stood  at  his  full  height,  looking  down  at 
the  figure  in  the  opposite  chair.  "And  Moira — ?"  he 
asked. 

"He  came — here — to  this  apartment — when  he  left  the 
hospital " 

"She  did  not  guess?* 

"Nor  you,"  said  Harry  with  some  spirit,  "since  you  in- 
vited him  here " 

"True  for  ye — I  did — bad  cess  to  him."  He  broke  off 
and  took  a  pace  toward  the  lay  figure  in  the  corner  and 
back.  And  then,  "This  is  a  bad  business,"  he  said  soberly. 
"And  ye  don't  know  where  he  is  at  the  present  moment?" 

"No.  He  got  away  clean  through  a  passage  to  the 
river " 

"You've  no  idea  who  helped  him  ?" 

"No.     And  Tricot's  no  fool — nor  Pochard — — " 

"But  they  lack  imagination — like  yerself " 

Harry  Horton  aroused  himself.  "He  was  drugged,  I 
tell  you — to  the  limit.  I  saw  him  before  I  came  here  to 
see  Moira.  He  was  clean  out.  Tricot  was  for  dropping 
him  into  the  river  when  we  'got'  him — but  I  wouldn't  let 
them  do  that — no — not  that." 

"Ye  were  always  lacking  in  a  pinch,  Harry " 

"But  my  brother — my  own  brother " 

Quinlevin  shrugged.  "I  can  see  yer  scruples.  A 
brother's  a  brother,  even  if  he  does  wean  away  yer  wife." 

Harry  started  up,  his  face  livid  at  the  cool,  insulting 
tones. 

"And  ye  can't  blame  Moira,"  continued  Quinlevin 
coolly,  "if  he's  turned  out  a  better  man  than  yerself." 

His  fiery  eyes  burned  in  his  pale  face  and  challenged  the 
166 


QUINLEFIN  SPEAKS 


other  man — intimidated  him  until  the  hot  words  on 
Harry's  tongue  died  unuttered. 

"A  fine  mess !  And  he's  no  baby — this  frolicsome 
brother  of  yours !  How  much  does  he  know  of  the  de 
Vautrin  affair?" 

"Enough,"  muttered  Harry  sullenly,  "from  the  letters 
and  what  you  told  him  in  the  hospital " 

"He  can't  go  far — "  He  broke  off  and  then,  with  a 
quick  change  into  eager  inquiry.  "He'd  hardly  have  had 
time  to  find  the  Due,  and  if  he  did " 

"No,"  said  Harry  sullenly.    "De  Vautrin  is  in  Nice." 

"Good.    Then  we'll  have  time." 

"For  what?' 

"To  meet  the  situation  as  it  should  be  met.  I  intend 
to  take  a  hand  in  this  affair  myself." 

"What  can  you  do?'J 

"I'll  find  a  way.  There's  one  thing  sure.  I  don't 
intend  to  have  the  ingenious  plans  of  half  a  lifetime  spoiled 
by  any  blundering  hay-maker  from  Kansas  City.  He's 
not  my  brother.  I  won't  have  your  scruples.  And  if 
Moira  has  learned  to  be  fond  of  him,  so  much  the  worse 
for  her.  I  asked  her  to  marry  you  because  I  didn't  want 
any  strange  young  man  to  come  poking  about  my  affairs 
or  hers.  She's  a  good  girl — too  good  for  the  likes  of 
either  of  us.  She  was  never  much  after  the  men,  being 
wedded  to  her  art,  and  I  thought  you'd  do  as  well  as 
another — that  ye'd  make  good  over  here  and  turn  out  the 
husband  she  deserved."  He  paused  to  give  his  words  more 
weight.  "Instead  of  making  good — ye've  made  a  mess  of 
it — to  say  nothing  of  falling  short  with  Moira.  I  might 
have  known.  But  it's  too  late  now  for  me  to  be  crying 
over  my  spilt  milk  or  yours.  And  whatever  happens  I'd 
like  ye  to  know,  my  boy,  that  this  affair  means  too  much 
— to  be  balked  for  a  mere  sentiment.  If  she  doesn't  love 
167 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

you  that's  yer  own  affair.  And  as  for  yer  brother,  Jim — • 
all  I  say  is  let  him  look  out  for  himself." 

He  had  sunk  into  his  chair  again,  his  lips  compressed, 
his  eyes  closed  to  narrow  slits  and  his  voice,  husky  a  mo- 
ment ago  with  his  passion,  enunciating  his  words  with  icy 
precision. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  find  him?  Haven't  I  told 
you  that  he's  slipped  away — lost  in  Paris?  And  you  know 
what  that  means." 

"How  could  he  slip  away — drugged — after  being 
knocked  out  and  unconscious?"  He  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair,  his  white  fist  clenched  on  the  table.  "Somebody 
helped  him " 

"It's  not  possible." 

"Why  not?  How  do  ye  know?  Ye  were  all  so  fright- 
ened of  the  police  that  ye  took  to  yer  heels  without  a  look 
around." 

"But  nobody  but  Pochard's  crowd  knew  about  the  old 
passage  to  the  river " 

"Then  somebody  in  Pochard's  crowd  did  the  helping." 

"It  can't  be.    They're  all  in  on  it." 

Quinlevin  shrugged.  "Perhaps,  but  I'll  be  looking  into 
that  phase  of  the  question  myself." 

"Go  ahead.  I  wish  you  luck.  But  how  is  that  going  to 
help?" 

"It'll  find  Jim  Horton.  And  that's  the  only  matter  I'm 
concerned  about." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  another  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"And  when  you  find  him  what  will  you  do  about  it  ?" 

In  her  place  of  concealment  Moira  trembled  at  the 
sound.  For  there  was  a  harsh  scraping  of  chairs  as 
Harry  and  Quinlevin  rose,  startled,  and  faced  Jim  Hor- 
ton, who  had  opened  the  door  of  the  closet  and  stood 
revealed  before  them. 

Harry  Horton  drew  back  a  pace,  leaning  on  a  chair, 
168 


QUINLEVIN  SPEAKS 


his  face  gray,  then  purple  again.  Quinlevin  stared,  one 
eye  squinting,  his  face  distorted  in  surprise  and  curiosity 
at  the  astonishing  apparition. 

"So,"  he  said,  "the  skeleton  in  the  closet !" 

"You'll  find  me  far  from  that,"  said  Jim  Horton,  strid- 
ing forward  to  within  a  few  paces  of  them.  "You  thought 
I  might  be  hard  to  find.  I'll  save  you  that  trouble." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Irishman,  finding  his  composure  and  a 
smile.  "So  ye're  the  interloper — the  comic  tragedian  of 
the  piece,  all  primed  and  set  for  trouble.  Well,  I  can't 
say  that  ye'll  be  disappointed — "  He  reached  deliberately 
for  his  trousers  pocket  and  drew  out  a  weapon.  But  Jim 
leaped  for  him  at  the  same  time  that  Moira,  rushing  into 
the  room,  shrieked  Quinlevin's  name. 

The  sound  disconcerted  him  and  the  shot  went  wild  and 
before  he  could  shoot  again  Jim  Horton  had  caught  his 
arm  and  given  his  wrist  a  vicious  twist  which  wrenched 
the  weapon  away  and  sent  him  hurling  into  a  chair.  Harry 
Horton  hadn't  moved.  His  feet  seemed  riveted  to  the 
floor. 

"Father!"  Moira  gasped,  her  face  white  as  paper. 
"You  might  have  killed  him." 

"That  was  the  exact  intention,"  said  Quinlevin,  making 
a  wry  face  and  nursing  his  wrist. 

But  Jim  Horton,  frowning  at  the  two  men,  held  the 
weapon  in  his  hand,  in  command  of  the  situation. 

"Why  did  you  come  out,  Jim — why?"  Moira  pleaded, 
wringing  her  fingers  and  staring  from  one  to  the  other. 

But  Jim  Horton  didn't  even  hear  her.  His  gaze  was 
fixed  steadily  on  Barry  Quinlevin,  who  had  shrugged  him- 
self back  into  self-possesison  and  was  smiling  up  at  the  in- 
truder as  though  in  appreciation  of  an  admirable  joke. 

"We'd  better  have  this  thing  out — you  and  I,"  said  Jim, 
coolly,  eliminating  Harry  from  the  discussion. 
169 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"By  all  means,"  said  Quinlevin.  "And  I'm  glad  ye 
know  a  real  enemy  when  ye  see  one." 

"You've  hardly  left  any  doubt  about  that.  There's  not 
much  to  say,  except  that  you're  not  going  to  drag  Moira 
into  this  dirty  business  with  the  Due.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"Perfectly — but  ye'll  hardly  be  less  perspicuous  if  the 
muzzle  of  the  revolver  is  twisted  a  bit  to  one  side.  It's  a 
hair  trigger — thanks.  As  you  were  saying " 

"I  won't  waste  words.  I  gave  Harry  his  warning. 
Instead  of  heeding  it,  he  hired  a  pair  of  thugs  to  put  me 
out  of  business.  But  I'll  take  no  chances  for  the  future. 
I'm  in  no  mood  to  die  just  yet." 

"I  like  yer  nerve,  Jim  Horton.  I  may  add,  it  suffers 
no  disadvantage  in  comparison  to  yer  twin  brother."  He 
shrugged  and  folded  his  arms.  "Well.  Ye  seem  to  have 
turned  the  odd  tricks — the  ace  of  clubs — the  ace  of  hearts- 
Now  what  are  ye  going  to  be  doing  with  us  all  entirely?" 

"I  told  Harry  what  I'd  do,  and  I'll  repeat  it  now. 
Drop  this  affair  of  the  Due  de  Vautrin — without  dragging 
Moira  through  the  dirty  mess,  and  I  quit — leaving  Harry 
with  his  rank  and  honors." 

"And  if  I  refuse ?" 

Jim  Horton  shrugged  carelessly. 

"I'll  tell  the  truth— that's  all." 

"Brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit.  Permit  me  to  say  that  I 
admire  the  succinctness  of  yer  statement.  But  the  alter- 
native is  impossible." 

"You  mean,  that  you'll  go  on  with  this  affair " 

"Ye've  guessed  it,  me  son — as  sure  as  ever  ye  find  it 
convenient  to  remove  the  imminent  and  deadly  weapon  and 
yerself  from  my  presence." 

"That's  final?" 

Quinlevin  laughed  and  very  coolly  poured  himself  out 
a  glass  of  whisky. 

170 


QUINLEFIN  SPEAKS 


"What's  the  use  of  quarreling?  By  a  bit  of  mistaken 
heroics  ye've  fired  yerself  into  the  midst  of  my  little  family 
circle  and  exploded.  Maybe  ye've  done  some  damage.  But 
I'm  an  old  bird,  and  I  don't  scare  so  easily.  Come  now. 
Ye  wouldn't  kill  me  out  of  hand.  Ye're  not  that  kind. 
And  so — let's  be  reasonable.  Can  I  pour  ye  a  drink?" 

"No,  thanks " 

"As  ye  please.  But  ye've  got  to  admit  that  there  are 
two  sides  to  this  question.  If  the  information  in  my 
possession  is  correct,  d'ye  see,  ye're  a  deserter  from  the 
army  of  the  United  States.  A  word  to  the  nearest  private 
of  the  Military  Police  and  ye're  jugged,  to  do  yer 
explaining  to  a  judge  advocate." 

"You  can't — you  won't  do  that." 

Moira  seemed  to  find  her  speech  with  an  effort,  for  the 
rapidity  of  events  and  their  portentous  consequences  to 
her  own  destiny  had  robbed  her  of  all  initiative.  But 
her  courage  came  back  with  a  rush  as  she  faced  this  man 
who  had  deceived  her  all  these  years — and  charmed  her 
even  now  with  his  reckless  grace  and  magnetism. 

"You  won't  do  that,"  she  went  on  breathlessly.  "I 
can't  permit  it.  I've  heard  all  you  said.  I've  been  listen- 
ing—there  " 

"Ah,  you  heard,"  said  Quinlevin  with  a  quick  glance 
at  her.  "Then  perhaps  it's  just  as  well.  I  would  be 
having  to  tell  you  some  day."  And  then,  with  quick 
decision.  "Ye're  not  my  daughter.  Ye're  the  child  of  the 
Due  de  Vautrin." 

As  he  shot  this  bolt  at  her,  he  watched  its  effect.  Moira 
grew  even  paler  and  stared  at  him  as  though  he  were  a 
person  she  had  never  seen  before. 

"The  daughter — of  the  Due  de  Vautrin?"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"That's  not  true,  Moira,"  broke  in  Jim's  voice,  "but 
you're  not  his  daughter  either.  I'll  take  my  oath  on  it." 

171 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  glanced  at  Jim  as  though  the  deep  tones  of  his 
voice  had  steadied  her  for  a  moment. 

"Not  his  daughter — then  who ?"     She  paused  and 

sought  Quinlevin's  eyes  uncertainly. 

"I've  told  ye  the  truth,  my  dear.  It  was  my  crime 
not  to  have  told  ye  before — but  that's  all  ye  can  lay 
against  me — that  and  the  love  for  ye  that  has  made  the 
confession  difficult.** 

Moira  faltered.  But  Barry  Quinlevin's  eyes  were  upon 
her,  alive,  it  seemed,  with  the  old  affection.  And  across 
her  brain  flitted  quick  visions  of  their  careless  past,  their 
years  of  plenty,  their  years  of  privation,  in  which  this 
man,  her  father  she  had  thought,  had  always  loomed  the 
dominant  figure,  reckless  perhaps,  aloof  at  times — but 
always  kindly — considerate.  .  .  .  But  there  was  Jim 
Horton  just  beside  her.  .  .  .  She  felt  his  presence  too — 
the  strength  of  him — the  honesty  and  the  love  of  her  that 
gave  him  the  courage  to  face  oblivion  for  her  sake.  The 
silence  was  deathly,  and  seemed  to  have  gone  on  for  hours. 
Jim  did  not  speak.  There  was  Harry  too,  standing  like 
a  pale  image,  the  ghost  of  her  happiness — staring  at  her. 
Were  they  all  dumb?  Something  seemed  to  be  required  of 
her  and  her  instinct  answered  for  her.  She  moved  toward 
Jim  Horton,  her  fingers  seeking  his. 

"I — I  love  him,"  she  found  herself  saying.  "I — want 
you  both  to  know.  It  has  all  been  a  horrible  mistake — 
But  it's  too  late  to  cry  over.  It  has  just  happened — 
that's  all.  I  can  never  love  any  one  else " 

"Moira ,"  whispered  Jim. 

"But  I  know  that — that  there's  nothing  to  be  done.  I 
only  wanted  you  to  know,"  she  finished  firmly,  "that  any 
one  who  harms  him,  harms  me " 

"Moira,"  Jim's  voice  broke  in  pleadingly  at  her  ear. 
"Come  away  with  me — now.  You  can't  stay  here.  The 
situation  is  impossible." 

172 


QUINLEFIN  SPEAKS 


She  felt  Barry  Quinlevin's  eyes  before  he  spoke. 

"I  don't  need  to  remind  ye,  Moira — of  yer  vows  at 
the  altar " 

"What  vows !"  broke  in  Jim,  fiercely  facing  his  brother. 
"A  travesty — a  cruel  hoax.  There's  no  law  that  will  keep 
it  binding " 

"She  married  me — with  her  eyes  open,"  muttered 
Harry.  "And  unless  I  release  her " 

"Stop!  For  God's  sake,"  Moira's  voice  found  itself 
in  pity  for  her  own  humiliation.  "There's  no  release — 
no  hope  for  either  of  us.  There's  no  divorce — except 
death " 

"I  ask  nothing  of  you,  Moira,"  Jim  was  pleading  again, 
"only  to  go  with  me — away  from  here — to-night — for 
your  own  self-respect." 

"An  outcast ,"  sneered  Quinlevin. 

He  saw  how  the  game  was  going,  but  he  went  too  far. 
She  turned  on  him  defiantly. 

"An  outcast!"  she  said.  "I  would  be  proud  to  be 
facing  the  world  alone  with  such  an  outcast  as  Jim 
Horton — the  shame  and  the  glory  of  following  blindly 
where  my  heart  was  leading  me " 

"Come,  then,"  said  Jim. 

"No.  Don't  you  see?  I  can't.  What  Harry  says  is 
true.  I  married  with  my  eyes  open.  I  swore  to  a  lie. 
And  I've  got  to  abide  by  that  lie.  I've  got  to,  Jim.  For 
God's  sake,  have  pity." 

She  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair,  relinquishing  his  hand. 
All  hope,  all  life,  it  seemed,  had  gone  out  of  her. 
Jim  Horton  stood  regarding  her  for  a  moment  and  then 
silently  walked  to  the  door,  when  he  heard  her  voice 
again. 

"Jim,"  she  cried  despairingly. 

He  turned  in  the  doorway  and  their  glances  met  for  a 
moment. 

173 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Will  you  come,  Moira?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"I  can't,  Jim.  I  can't " 

He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  laying  Quinlevin's 
weapon  on  the  table  in  front  of  him,  turned  again  and 
walked  out  of  the  door  and  into  the  darkness  of  the  cor- 
ridor. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

IT  would  have  been  easy  for  Quinlevin  to  have  shot 
him  in  the  back,  and  at  the  moment  Jim  Horton 
wouldn't  much  have  cared  if  he  had.  He  went  down 
the  stairs  slowly,  across  the  court  and  out  into  the  street, 
wandering  aimlessly,  bare  headed,  with  no  sense  of  any 
intention  or  direction.  "There's  no  divorce — but  death." 
Moira's  words  rang  again  and  again  in  his  brain.  That 
was  a  part  of  her  creed,  her  faith,  her  religion.  She  had 
once  spoken  of  what  her  Church  had  always  meant  to 
her — her  Mother,  she  had  called  it, — and  she  was  true  to 
her  convictions.  "There's  no  divorce — but  death."  The 
revelation  of  her  beliefs  was  not  new  to  him,  yet  it  came 
to  him  with  a  sense  of  shock  that  she  had  chosen  at  the 
last  to  remain  with  Harry  and  Quinlevin  and  all  the 
degradation  that  the  association  meant  to  her.  It  had 
been  a  choice  between  two  degradations,  and  force  of 
habit  had  cast  the  last  feather  into  the  balance.  In  the 
bitterness  of  his  own  situation — isolated,  outcast,  with  no 
hope  of  regeneration,  he  tried  to  find  it  in  his  heart  to 
blame  her.  But  the  thought  of  the  pain  and  bewilder- 
ment he  had  seen  in  her  eyes  made  him  only  pitiful  for 
her  misfortunes.  It  seemed  as  though  the  shock  of  the 
many  revelations  of  the  evening  had  deadened  her  initia- 
tive, enfeebled  her  fine  impulses  and  made  her  like  a  de- 
pendent child — at  the  mercy  of  custom  and  tradition. 
And  he  could  not  forget  that  he  had  gone  to  her  asking 
nothing,  expecting  nothing,  and  that  in  spite  of  all  the 
barriers  that  she  recognized  between  them,  in  spite  of  the 
175 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

deception  he  had  practiced,  she  had  still  clung  to  him 
and  even  acknowledged  him  in  the  presence  of  her  husband 
and  the  man  she  called  her  father.  Love  had  glowed  in 
her  eyes  and  in  her  heart,  lifting  her  for  a  time  above 
the  tragic  mystery  of  her  origin  and  the  broken  ideals 
of  a  lifetime.  It  was  almost  enough  for  him  to  ask  of 
her. 

It  didn't  seem  to  matter  much  now  what  happened  to 
him.  But  almost  unconsciously  he  found  himself  casting 
an  occasional  glance  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  he  was 
followed.  He  had  no  fear  of  Harry.  His  brother  had 
shown  to-night  in  his  true  colors,  but  the  picturesque 
scoundrel  whose  name  Moira  bore  was  clearly  a  person 
to  be  reckoned  with.  Why  Quinlevin  hadn't  taken  a  pot- 
shot at  him  on  the  stairs  was  more  than  Jim  Horton 
could  understand,  unless  some  consideration  for  Moira 
had  held  his  hand.  The  impulse  of  fury  that  had  made 
him  draw  his  revolver  had  faded.  But  their  controversy 
was  still  unsettled  and  Jim  Horton  knew  that  the  one  duty 
left  him  must  be  done  at  once.  After  he  had  told  what 
he  knew  to  de  Vautrin,  Quinlevin  could  try  to  kill  him  if 
he  liked — but  not  before 

Would  the  memories  of  the  past  prevail  in  Moira's 
relations  with  Quinlevin?  Would  he  be  able  to  convince 
her  that  she  was  the  Due's  daughter?  He  remembered 
that  most  of  what  he  had  heard  from  his  place  of  con- 
cealment could  be  susceptible  of  a  double  interpretation 
under  the  skillful  manipulation  of  the  resourceful  Irish- 
man. 

Jim  Horton  knew  that  Piquette  had  told  him  the 
straight  story,  from  Harry's  own  lips,  but  he  could  not 
violate  her  confidence  by  using  her  name.  It  meant 
danger  for  Piquette  from  Quinlevin  and  perhaps  a 
revelation  of  her  breech  of  Pochard's  confidence  and  a 
greater  danger  even  from  Tricot.  He  knew  that  he  must 
176 


BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

move  alone  and  reach  the  ear  of  de  Vautrin  at  once  with 
his  testimony. 

He  approached  the  cafe  of  Leon  Javet  when  he  heard 
the  light  patter  of  feet  behind  him  and  stopped  and 
turned.  It  was  Piquette,  divested  of  her  fine  raiment  and 
dressed  in  the  simple  garb  of  a  midinette. 

"Jeem ,"  she  said.  "I  *ave  been  waiting  for  you 

—outside " 

"Oh,  Piquette— 

"You  mus'  not  go  in  Javet's — come,  mon  ami,  to  de 
oder  side  of  de  street — — " 

"Why,  Piquette?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Because  Tricot  and  Le  Singe  are  looking  for  you  and 
dey  will  watch  Javet's." 

"H-m.     Who  told  you  this?" 

But  he  let  her  take  him  by  the  elbow  to  the  darkness 
opposite. 

"Pochard.  De  house  in  de  Rue  Charron  is  watch*  by 
de  police.  Dey  are  afraid  you  will  give  de  evidence " 

"They  needn't  worry  just  now,"  he  muttered.  "I've 
something  else  to  do." 

"But  you  mus'  keep  away  from  de  Quartier " 

"I  expect  to.     I'm  going  away,  Piquette " 

"Jeem!     Where?" 

"To  Nice.  I've  got  to  see  your  friend  de  Vautrin,  at 
once." 

"Ah— de  Vautrin!" 

She  walked  along  with  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Where  is  your  'at,  mon  ami?" 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  aware  for  the  first 
time  of  his  loss. 

"I  left  it " 

"In  the  Rue  de  Tavennes?" 

"Yes." 

177 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Ah,  you  mus'  tell  me.  Come  to  de  Boulevard  Clichy. 
It  is  safer^' 

"I've  taken  a  lodging  in  the  Rue  Jean  Paul." 
"No,"  she  insisted.     "You  mus*  take  no  more  chances 
on  dis  side  of  de  river  jus'  now — nor  mus*  I." 

"You  mean  that  they  suspect ?" 

"Not  yet — but  dey  will  if  dey  see  us — you  and  I " 

"You  can't  run  that  chance,  Piquette." 
"We  are  quite  safe  in  de  Boulevard  Clichy.  Come." 
And  so  he  yielded  to  her  persuasions  and  followed  her 
by  a  roundabout  way  across  the  Pont  Carrousel  and  so 
toward  their  destination,  while  he  told  her  in  general 
terms  of  the  events  of  the  evening.  She  listened,  putting 
in  an  exclamation  or  a  brief  question  here  and  there,  but 
made  no  comments  until  they  reached  her  apartment, 
where  she  made  him  comfortable  in  her  best  chair,  gave 
him  a  cigarette  and  getting  out  of  her  street  dress,  slipped 
into  her  dressing  gown.  To  the  western  mind,  unused 
to  the  casual  ways  of  the  atelier,  this  informality  might 
have  seemed  indecorous.  But  Jim  Horton  was  deeply 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  and  for  the  moment  did  not 
think  of  her.  And  when  she  drew  her  robe  around  her 
and  took  up  a  cigarette,  she  seemed  for  the  first  time  to 
be  aware  of  his  abstraction.  To  Piquette's  mind  those 
things  which  were  natural  to  her  must  be  natural  to  every 
one  else,  and  this,  after  all,  is  only  the  simple  philosophy 
of  the  child.  As  she  curled  herself  up  on  her  chaise  lon>gue 
and  lighted  her  cigarette  he  smiled  at  her. 

"Well,  mon  Jeem,"  she  said,  "what  you  t'ink  of  Mon- 
sieur Quinlevin?"  (She  pronounced  it  Canl'van.) 

"He's  just  about  the  smoothest  proposition  that  ever 
happened,"  he  replied.  "He'd  have  gotten  me,  if  I  hadn't 
moved  in  close." 

"An'  'Arry ?  'E  did  not'ing?" 

178 


BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

"No.  Just  stood  there.  He's  lost  his  nerve  again. 
He  won't  bother  me,  but  the  Irishman  is  in  this  game 
for  keeps." 

"He  is  dangerous,  mon  aim.  You  *ad  better  not  go  on 
wit'  dis  affair." 

"Yes,  Piquette,  I  must,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  got  into 
this  situation  bj  being  a  moral  coward,  I'm  not  going  to 
get  out  of  it  by  being  a  physical  one.  Besides,  I've 
promised." 

"Who?" 

"Myself.    It's  a  duty  I  owe ,"  he  paused, 

"To  Madame  'Orton?  An'  what  t'anks  do  you  get?" 
She  shrugged  expressively.  "A  bullet  or  a  knife  in  de 
ribs,  perhaps.  You  'ave  already  almos*  enough  been 
shot  and  beaten,  man  ineux" 

"And  yet  here  I  am  quite  comfortable  in  your  best 
chair,  and  none  the  worse — thanks  to  you,  Piquette." 

"But  you  cannot  always  be  so  lucky.  I  would  be  ver' 
onhappy  if  you  were  kill',  mon  Jeem." 

"Would  you,  Piquette?"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  im- 
pulsively and  kissing  it  gently. 

"An*  den  it  is  too  late  to  be  onhappy ,"  she  sighed 

and  put  her  other  hand  over  his.  "Oh,  mon  Jeem,  life  is 
so  short,  so  sweet.  It  is  not  right  to  take  a  chance  of 
dying  before  one's  time." 

"I  don't  want  to  die  just  yet,  and  I  don't  expect  to, 
but  life  doesn't  mean  a  whole  lot  to  me*  It's  too  complex, 

you    understand? — difficile "      He   gave  a    sigh   and 

sank  back  in  his  chair,  relinquishing  her  fingers.  "I  guess 
I  was  meant  for  the  simple  life,"  he  said,  with  his  slow 
smile. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  regarding  him  soberly. 

"What  'as  happen',  mon  ami?     She  'as  let  you  go?" 

He  paused,  frowning  at  the  ash  of  his  cigarette. 
179 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"What  else  could  she  do?"  he  asked  quietly.  "I  asked 
nothing — expected  nothing  of  her.'* 

"Then  you  cannot  be  disappoint* !"  said  Piquette  dryly. 
"She  is  not  worth  de  trouble.  You  run  a  risk  of  being 
kill',  to  save  'er  from  'er  'usban'  who  is  a  vaut  rien,  you 
offer  'er  de  bes'  you  'ave  an'  she  send  you  away  alone  into 
de  darkness.  You  t'ink  she  loves  you.  Saperlotte!  What 
she  knows  of  love!  If  I  love  a  man  I  would  go  wit'  'im 
to  de  end  of  de  worl',  no  matter  what  *e  is." 

He  sat  watching  her  as  she  spoke — listening  to  thf 
clear  tones  of  her  voice,  watching  the  changes  in  her 
expressive  features. 

"I  believe  you  would,  Piquette,"  he  muttered. 

"An*  you,"  she  went  on  shrilly,  "you  who  *ave  save' 
'er  'usban'  from  disgrace,  you  who  win  'im  de  Croix  de 
Guerre  an*  den  go  into  de  darkness  an  outcas' — she  let 
you  go — she  let  you  go !" 

"Sh ,"  he  broke  in.  "She  had  to — I  understand — 

she  is  a  Catholic " 

She  paused  and  then  went  on.  "Why  'as  she  marry 
your  broder  if  she  does  not  love  'im?  La  la!"  She 
stopped  and  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders.  "Perhaps 
you  onderstan'  now,  mon  petit  Jeem,  why  I  'ave  not 
marry.  Not  onless  I  love,  and  den ,"  her  voice  sank 

to  a  tense  whisper,  "and  den  ontil  deaf  I  would  be  true 
»> 

"Yes,  Piquette.  You  are  that  sort.  But  this ," 

and  he  glanced  about  the  room. 

She  shrugged  as  she  caught  his  meaning. 

"Monsieur  'as  much  money.  Why  should  I  not  be  con- 
tent as  well  as  some  one  else?" 

Deep  in  his  heart  he  was  sorry  for  her,  but  he  could 

see  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  sorry  for  herself.     And 

the   unconventionality   of   her   views,    the   total   lack    of 

moral    sense,    seemed   somehow   less   important   than   the 

180 


BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

rugged  sincerity  of  her  point  of  view  and  the  steadfast- 
ness of  her  friendship. 

"And  you  have  never  loved  well  enough  to  marry?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  mon  Jeem,"  she  said  gently. 

Their  glances  met,  his  level  and  friendly.  And  it  was 
her  look  that  first  turned  away.  "No,  mon  Jeem,"  she 
repeated  slowly.  "One  does  not  meet  such  a  man,  ontil 
it  is  too  late."  She  gave  a  sharp  little  gasp  and  sat  up 
facing  him.  "An'  I  speak  of  my  troubles  when  you  'ave 
greater  ones  of  your  own.  I  want  to  'elp  you,  mon  ami. 
You  'ave  in  your  mind  a  duty  to  do  with  Monsieur  the 
Due  de  Vautrin.  You  'ave  make  me  t'ink.  Perhaps  it 
is  my  duty  too." 

"I've  got  to  see  him  at  once,  before  Quinlevin  does." 

"Eh  bien.  He  is  on  the  Riviera — Nice.  We  s'all  find 
5im." 

"We?" 

"Parfaitement!  Perhaps  I  can  make  it  easier  for  you 
to  see  him " 

"You'll  go  with  me?" 

"Why  not?    Onless  you  do  not  want  me ?" 

"Of  course  I'll  be  only  too  happy,  only " 

"What,  mon  petit?" 

"It  seems  a  great  deal  to  ask.  You've  already  done  so 
much." 

"No,"  she  said  with  a  smile.  "It  will  perhaps  be  safer 
for  both  of  us  away  from  Paris.  An*  you  are  onhappy. 
Will  I  perhaps  not  cheer  you  up  a  little?" 

"There's  no  doubt  of  that,  Piquette " 

"I  would  like  to  go  wit'  you.  It  will  give  me  pleasure — 
if  you  do  not  mind." 

"But  Monsieur  the  Due " 

"Je  ne  me  fiche  pas.  Besides,  shall  I  not  now  be  doing 
him  a  service?" 

181 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Yes,  that's  true."  He  stopped  as  a  thought  came  to 
him.  "The  Due  suspects  something.  What  made  him 
go  to  Ireland  and  question  Nora  Burke?" 

"Perhaps  I  talk'  a  little  too  much  dat  night " 

"Has  he  spoken  of  it  since?" 

"Yes.     But  I  toP  'im  not'ing.     I  did  not  wish  to  get 

*Arry  in  trouble.  But  now ,"  she  shrugged  and  lighted 

a  fresh  cigarette.  "I  do  not  care  about  what  'appen  to 
'Arry  or  Monsieur  Quinlevin.  It  is  only  what  'appens  to 
you  dat  matters,  mon  Jeem. 

"But  in  befriending  me  you've  made  enemies  of  all  that 
crowd " 

"Not  onless  dey  find  out.  It  is  you  who  are  in  danger. 
After  what  you  'ave  'card  to-night,  you  are  more  danger- 
ous to  Quinlevin  dan  ever." 

"I  gave  him  his  chance.     He  didn't  take  it." 

"But  he'll  make  anoder  chance.  You  do  not  know  dat 
man.  Even  Tricot  is  afraid  of  'im." 

"Well,  I'm  not.  He  thinks  the  world  owes  him  a 
living.  But  he  wouldn't  last  half  an  hour  out  in  the 
country  where  I  come  from.  He's  clever  enough,  to  put 
it  over  Moira  all  these  years " 

"Yes,  mon  Jeem.  An'  'e  may  'put  it  over'  still — now 
dat  you  go  from  'er " 

"Perhaps,"  he  muttered,  with  a  frown.  "But  that 
doesn't  matter.  She's  not  de  Vautrin's  daughter — or  his 
— I'd  take  an  oath  on  it.  I've  got  to  clear  her  skirts  of 
this  dirty  mess.  She  wouldn't  come.  They've  got  her 
there  now — a  prisoner.  She  can't  help  herself.  I  can't 
be  losing  any  time." 

He  rose  suddenly  as  though  aware  of  the  passage  of 
time  and  took  a  few  paces  away  from  her. 

"Not  to-night?"  said  Piquette. 

"The  first  train.     I've  got  to  go  and  find  out." 
182 


BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

She  glanced  at  the  small  enameled  clock  upon  the 
mantel. 

"It  is  too  late»  Dere  would  be  no  fas'  express  until 
de  morning." 

"Very  well.     I'll  see."    And  he  strode  toward  the  door. 

"At  de  Hotel  Gravelotte — at  de  corner  you  will  find 

out,  but  wait "  She  had  sprung  up  and  running  out 

of  the  apartment,  returned  in  a  moment  with  a  soft  hat, 
which  she  gave  him. 

"Thanks,  Piquette — you're  my  good  angel.  I  do  seem 
to  need  you,  don't  I?" 

"I  'ope  you  do,  mon  vieux"  she  said  quietly.  And 
then,  "Go  an'  'urry  back.  I  will  wait  for  you." 

Thus  it  was  that  the  next  day  found  Jim  Horton  and 
Piquette  together  in  a  compartment  of  the  Marseilles 
Express  on  their  way  to  the  Riviera.  Jim  had  managed  to 
get  reservations  in  a  train  which  was  now  running 
regularly,  and  then,  after  advising  Piquette,  had  returned 
to  his  lodgings  in  the  Rue  Jean  Paul,  meeting  her  at  the 
Gare  de  Lyon  at  noon.  Piquette  seemed  to  have  thought 
of  everything  that  he  had  forgotten,  and  greeted  him 
with  an  air  of  gayety  which  did  much  to  restore  his 
drooping  spirits.  It  was  very  cozy,  very  comfortable,  in 
their  compartment  a  deux,  and  Piquette  looked  upon  the 
excursion  from  the  angle  of  the  child  ready  and  willing 
to  take  a  new  pleasure  in  anything.  Curiously  enough, 
she  had  traveled  little — only  once  to  the  Cote  d'Azur, 
and  looked  forward  with  delight  to  the  southern  sunshine, 
the  blue  of  the  sea,  and  the  glimpse  of  the  world  of  fashion 
which  was  once  more  to  be  seen  upon  the  Promenade  des 
Anglais.  The  passing  landscape  she  greeted  with  little 
childish  cries  as  she  recognized  familiar  scenes — the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Seine,  Juvisy,  then  Arpajon,  Etampe&  and 
Orleans. 

And  Jim  Horton  sat  watching  her,  detached  by  her 
183 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

magnetism  from  the  gloom  of  his  thoughts,  aware  of  the 
quality  of  her  devotion  to  this  newly  found  friend  for 
whom  with  joyous  carelessness  she  was  risking  the  good- 
will of  her  patron,  the  displeasure  of  her  bloodthirsty 
friends  of  earlier  days  and  even  perhaps  her  very  life.  She 
was  a  new  event  in  his  experience,  giving  him  a  different 
meaning  for  many  things.  There  had  been  no  new  pas- 
sages of  anything  approaching  sentiment  between  them 
and  he  watched  her  curiously.  It  seemed  that  what  she 
wished  him  to  understand  was  that  she  was  merely  a  good 
friend  that  he  could  tie  to  and  be  understood  by.  Even 
when  he  took  her  hand  in  his — a  natural  impulse  on 
Jim's  part  when  it  lay  for  a  moment  beside  him — she  only 
let  it  rest  there  a  moment  and  then  gave  a  careless  gesture 
or  made  a  swift  useful  motion  which  dispelled  illusions 
and  exorcised  sentiment.  And  yet  of  sentiment  of  another 
sort  she  was  full,  fairly  bubbling  over  with  sympathy  and 
encouragement,  inviting  him  to  share  her  enjoyment  of 
the  gray  and  brown  pastoral  from  the  car  window,  peace- 
ful, beautiful  and  untouched  by  the  rough  hand  of  war. 
It  was  a  kind  of  friendship  he  couldn't  understand  and 
wouldn't  have  understood  perhaps  even  if  he  had  been 
skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  women.  And  yet,  there  it  was, 
very  real,  very  vital  to  him  in  all  its  beauty  and  self- 
effacement. 

Whatever  her  past,  her  strange  philosophy  of  life,  her 
unique  code  of  morals,  he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that 
she  was  a  fine  young  animal,  feminine  to  the  last  glossy 
hair  of  her  head,  and  compact  of  splendid  forces  which 
had  been  diverted — of  virtues  which  refused  to  be  stifled 
by  the  mere  accident  of  environment.  But  most  of  all  was 
she  that  product  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  which  knows  and 
shares  poverty  and  affluence,  friendship  and  enmity, — 
the  gamine,  the  bonne  camarade. 

She  thought  nothing  of  her  exploit  in  rescuing  him 
184 


BEGINNING  A  JOURNEY 

from  the  house  in  the  Rue  Charron,  nor  would  she  permit 
a  repetition  of  his  admiration  and  gratitude.  The 
impulse  that  had  driven  her  to  the  rescue  was  spon- 
taneous. He  was  one  she  knew,  an  American  soldier, 
a  friend  of  France,  in  trouble.  Was  not  that  enough? 

As  the  day  wore  on  Piquette  grew  tired  looking  at 
the  scenery  and  after  yawning  once  or  twice,  laid  her 
head  quite  frankly  upon  his  shoulder  with  all  the  grace 
of  a  tired  child  and  immediately  went  to  sleep.  Jim 
Horton  smiled  down  at  her  with  a  new  sense  of  pride  in 
this  strange  friendship,  admiring  the  fine  level  brows,  the 
shadows  on  her  eye-lids,  slightly  tinted  with  blue,  the 
well-turned  nose,  the  scarlet  curve  of  her  under  lip  and 
the  firm  line  of  her  jaw  and  chin.  Two  outcasts  they 
were,  he  and  she,  strangely  met  and  more  strangely  linked 
in  the  common  purpose  of  protecting  the  destinies  of  a 
decadent  French  gentleman  whom  Jim  Horton  had  never 

seen  and  in  whom  he  had  no  interest.  And  Piquette ? 

What  was  her  motive?  Her  loyalty  to  de  Vautrin,  unlike 
that  which  she  had  shown  for  him,  was  spasmodic, 
actuated  by  no  affection  but  only  by  the  humor  of  the 
moment.  She  did  not  love  this  man.  He  had  never 
been  to  her  anything  more  than  a  convenience. 

He  smiled.  The  word  suggested  a  thought  to  him. 
Convenience !  Was  this  relation  of  Piquette  to  her  patron 
any  worse  than  those  marriages  of  the  ambitious  girls  of 
his  own  country,  without  love,  often  without  hope  of  love, 
to  bring  themselves  up  in  the  world?  Piquette  at  least  was 
honest — with  the  patron  and  with  herself. 

The  vows  at  the  altar  were  sacred.  He  knew  how 
sacred  now.  He  had  not  dared  to  think  of  Moira  and  he 
knew  that  it  was  well  that  Piquette  had  kept  his  thoughts 
from  her.  But  now  as  his  companion  slept,  his  arm  around 
her  slim  figure,  he  began  to  think  of  Moira  and  the  tragic 
decision  that  he  had  given  her  to  make.  She  had  chosen 
185 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

to  remain  there  in  the  Rue  de  Tavennes  because  that  was 
the  only  home  she  knew,  and  in  the  agony  of  her  mind 
she  felt  that  she  must  find  sanctuary  in  her  own  room  with 
her  thoughts  and  her  prayers.  And  the  love  she  bore 
him,  he  knew  was  not  a  mere  passing  fancy,  born  of  their 
strange  romance,  but  a  living  flame  of  pure  passion,  which 
could  only  be  dimmed  by  her  duty  to  her  conscience— but 
not  extinguished. 


Piquette  stirred  slightly  in  her  sleep  and  spoke  his 
name.  "Mon  Jeem,"  she  muttered,  and  then  settled  her- 
self more  comfortably  against  his  shoulder.  Jim  Horton 
did  not  move  for  fear  of  awakening  her,  but  his  gaze 
passed  over  her  relaxed  features  and  a  generous  wave 
of  gratitude  swept  over  him  for  all  that  she  had  done 
for  him.  What  a  trump  she  was !  What  a  loyal  little 
soul  to  help  him  with  no  hope  of  reward  but  the  same  kind 
of  loyalty  she  had  given  him.  He  must  not  fail  her.  If 
there  were  only  some  way  in  which  he  could  help  her  to 
happiness.  In  sleep  she  was  so  gentle — so  child-like — • 
so  confiding.  Thinking  of  all  that  he  owed  her,  he  bent 
over  and  kissed  her  gently  on  the  brow. 

She  did  not  waken,  and  Jim  Horton  raised  his  head. 
Then  suddenly,  as  if  in  response  to  an  impulse,  looked 
at  the  small,  uncurtained  window  that  let  out  upon  the 
corridor  of  the  carriage.  There,  two  dark  eyes  stared 
at  him  as  though  fascinated  from  a  pallid  face,  the  whiter 
for  its  frame  of  dusky  hair — the  face  of  Moira  Quinlevin. 
He  thought  for  a  moment  that  the  vision  was  a  part  of 
his  obsession  and  for  a  second  did  not  move — and  then 
started  forward,  awakening  Piquette,  for  behind  the  face, 
in  the  obscurity  of  the  corridor,  he  made  out  another 
head — and  the  iridescent  eyes  of  Barry  Quinlevin. 

186 


CHAPTER  XIV 
A  NIGHT  ATTACK 

AND  even  as  he  looked  the  faces  were  merged  into 
the  obscurity  and  vanished. 
Piquette  clung  to  his  arm,  whispering. 

"I  'd  such  a  dreadful  dream —  Why,  Jeem,  what  is  it?5* 

He  started  to  his  feet. 

"Barry  Quinlevin — there!"  he  gasped.     "With  her!" 

Her  clutch  on  his  arm  tightened. 

"Here — impossible !" 

"I  saw  them." 

"You  dreamed,  like  me.     I  can't  believe " 

"They  were  there  a  moment  ago.    Let  me  go,  Piquette.*" 

"No,"  she  gasped  in  a  frightened  whisper.  "You  mus* 
not  follow " 

"I've  got  to — to  explain,"  he  muttered. 

But  she  only  clutched  his  arm  the  more  firmly  and  he 
could  not  shake  her  off,  for  she  held  him  with  the  strength 
of  desperation. 

"Not  now,  man  Jeem,"  she  pleaded.  "I — I  am  frighten' 
)> 

He  glanced  at  her  quickly  and  it  seemed  as  if  this  were 
so,  for  her  face  had  gone  so  white  that  the  rouge  upon 
her  lips  looked  like  the  blood  upon  an  open  wound. 

"It  is  jus'  what  'e  want',  mon  Jeem,  for  you  to  go 
after  him." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"It  would  give  him  de  excuse  he  want'  to  shoot  you 
» 

"Nonsense." 

187 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Defense  personnette.  He  knows  de  law.  He  will  kill 
you,  mon  Jeem." 

"I'm  not  afraid.     I've  got  to  go,  Piquette " 

"No.     You  s'all  not.     An'  leave  me  here  alone ?" 

"There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about  on  a  train 
full  of  people " 

He  managed  to  reach  the  door  with  Piquette  clinging 
to  him  and  peered  out  into  the  corridor.  A  guard  was 
approaching. 

"On  est  ce  monsieur  et  cette  dame "  he  stammered, 

Ollendorf  fashion,  and  then  his  French  failed  him  and 
he  floundered  helplessly,  pleading  with  Piquette  to  finish 
what  he  wished  to  say. 

But  the  man  understood,  rattled  off  a  rapid  sentence 
and  disappeared. 

"It  is  dat  dey  have  gone  into  anoder  carriage,"  she 
translated.  "You  see.  It  will  be  impossible  to  find  dem." 

"No,"  he  muttered,  but  he  knew  that  the  delay  had  cost 
him  his  opportunity. 

"You  mus'  not  leave  me,  mon  petit,"  Piquette  pleaded 
at  his  ear.  "I  'ave  fear  of  him.  'E  'as  seen  us  together. 
Now  'e  knows  that  it  is  I  who  'ave  tol'  about  Monsieur 
le  Due — I  who  'ave  'elp  you  from  de  house  in  de  Rue 
Charron — everyt'ing.  I  'ave  fear " 

Jim  laid  a  hand  over  hers  and  patted  it  reassuringly. 

"Don't  worry.     He  can't  harm  you." 

"I  am  not  afraid  when  you  are  'ere, "  she  whispered- 

And  she  won  her  way.  It  was  the  least  that  he  could 
do  for  her;  so  he  sat  again  thinking  of  the  look  in  Moira's 
eyes  and  frowning  out  of  the  window,  wondering  how  best 
to  meet  this  situation,  while  Piquette  clung  to  his  arm 
and  patted  his  hand  nervously. 

"We  should  'ave  watch'  for  'im,  mon  Jeem — at  de  Gare 

de  Lyon.    I  don'  on'erstan' " 

188 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


"Nor  I — how  he  got  her  to  come  with  him,"  muttered 
Jim  fiercely. 

"  'Ave  I  not  to?  you  'e  is  a  man  extraordinaire — a  man 
to  be  watch'— to  be  fear'—?" 

"How  did  he  get  her  to  come?'*  Jim  repeated,  as 
though  to  himself.  "How  did  he ?" 

There  seemed  no  necessity  to  find  a  reply  to  that,  for 
there  she  was,  in  the  next  carriage,  perhaps,  with  this 
shrewd  rascal,  whose  power  and  resource  seemed  hourly 
to  grow  in  importance. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  Moira  had  listened  to 
Quinlevin,  had  believed  the  story  he  had  chosen  to  tell 
her,  directly  after  the  convincing  proof  of  his  villainy, 
directly  after  Jim  Horton's  own  plea  to  save  her.  What 
art — what  witchcraft  had  he  employed? 

The  answer  came  in  a  shrewd  guess  of  Piquette's. 

"Dis  was  de  firs'  fas'  express  to  de  Mediterranean," 
she  said.  "  'E  knew  you  would  go  to  Monsieur  de  Vau- 
trin.  Las'  night  'e  foun'  out  I  would  go  wit'  you." 

"But  how ?" 

"Who  knows ?"  she  shrugged  uneasily. 

He  turned  with  a  frown  and  examined  Piquette  with 
quick  suspicion,  but  her  gaze  met  his  frankly.  The 
thought  that  had  sped  through  his  mind  was  discreditable 
to  her  and  to  him  for  thinking  it.  There  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  her  collusion  with  Quinlevin.  Her  fear  of 
him  was  too  genuine. 

"H-m.  He  arranged  things  nicely.  To  show  her  me 
with  you, " 

"Parfaitement!  It  is  dat  only  which  made  'er  come, 
mon  petit," 

"Smooth  !"  muttered  Jim.  "And  she  saw  me,  all  right," 
he  finished  bitterly. 

Piquette  was  silent  for  awhile. 

"She  is  ver'  'andsome,"  she  said  at  last.  And  then, 
189 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"An'  she  foun'  me  asleep  wit'  my  'ead  on  your  shoulder." 

"Yes,"  muttered  Jim.     "She  did." 

At  the  moment  he  could  not  think  how  much  his  words 
wounded  her. 

"I  am  sorry,  mon  petit,"  she  said  gently. 

His  conscience  smote  him  at  the  tone  of  contrition. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  of  course,"  he  said.  "There 
was  no  hope — for  me — none.  But  it  complicates  things 
a  little." 

"Yes,  I  comprehend.  Monsieur  hopes  to  keep  you  from 
reaching  the  Due." 

"He  won't  succeed — but  I'd  rather  he  hadn't  seen  me 
in  the  train." 

"Or  Madame." 

Jim  Horton  made  no  reply  and  was  at  once  enwrapped 
in  his  thoughts,  which  as  Piquette  could  see,  excluded  her. 
And  after  a  glance  at  his  face,  she  too  was  silent.  The 
train,  stopping  here  and  there,  rushed  on  through  the 
darkness,  for  hours  it  seemed  to  Piquette,  and  her  com- 
panion still  sat,  staring  at  the  blank  wall  before  him, 
absorbed  in  his  problem.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
her — and  at  last  she  could  bear  the  silence  no  longer. 

"Mon  pauvre  Jeem,  you  love  'er  so  much  as  dat?"  she 
asked. 

He  started  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  then  turned 
and  laid  his  hand  over  hers. 

"I'm  a  fool,  Piquette,"  he  muttered. 

"Who  s'all  say?"  She  shrugged.  Then  she  turned 
her  palm  up  and  clasped  his.  "I  am  ver'  sorry,  mon  ami" 

The  touch  of  her  hand  soothed  him.  In  spite  of  the 
danger  that  she  now  ran,  only  half  suggested  by  what  she 
had  said,  she  could  still  find  words  to  comfort  him.  Selfish 
brute  that  he  was,  not  to  think  of  her! 

"Piquette!     I  have  gotten  you  into  trouble." 

"No.    I  got  myself  into  it,  mon  Jeem." 
190 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


He  made  no  reply — and  sat  frowning.  The  train  had 
stopped  again.  By  contrast  with  the  roar  to  which  their 
ears  had  become  accustomed,  the  silence  was  eloquent  as 
though  their  train  had  stopped  breathless  upon  the  edge 
of  an  abyss.  Then  small  sounds  emerged  from  the  silence, 
a  complaining  voice  from  an  adjoining  compartment,  the 
buzzing  of  an  insect,  a  distant  hissing  of  steam.  Then 
suddenly,  the  night  was  split  with  a  crash  of  sound  and 
glass  from  the  window  was  sprinkled  over  them.  Another 
crash.  And  before  Piquette  had  realized  what  was 
happening  Jim  had  seized  her  bodily  and  thrown  her 
to  the  floor  of  their  compartment,  and  was  crouching 
over  her,  while  the  missiles  from  outside,  fired  rapidly, 
were  buried  in  the  woodwork  above  the  place  where  they 
had  sat. 

Six  shots  and  then  a  commotion  of  voices  here,  there, 
everywhere,  and  the  sound  of  feet  running  inside  the  train 
and  out. 

"Lucky  I  pulled  that  blind,"  said  Jim  as  he  straight- 
ened, glancing  at  the  bullet  holes. 

"Quinlevin,"  gasped  Piquette  as  she  rose  to  a  sitting 
posture. 

Jim  Horton  got  up  and  opened  the  door  just  as  the 
guards  came  running  with  excited  inquiries,  and  seeing 
Piquette  upon  the  floor. 

"Madame  has  been  shot ?" 

But  Piquette  immediately  reassured  them  by  getting 
up,  frightened  but  quite  unhurt. 

"By  the  window — the  shots  came,"  she  explained 
quickly  in  French,  while  Jim  exhibited  the  damaged 
paneling.  "Some  one  outside  has  fired  at  us " 

They  understood  and  were  off  again,  out  into  the  dark- 
ness where  there  was  much  running  about  with  lanterns 
and  many  cries  of  excitement,  while  the  other  passengers 
191 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

crowded  into  the  compartment  and  examined  the  bullet 
holes,  mouths  agape. 

"Is  it  the  Boches?"  asked  an  excited  mondaine  of  her 
compagnon  de  voyage. 

"Not  unlikely,"  replied  the  other. 

But  Jim  Horton  knew  better.  Consideration  for  Moira's 
position  had  kept  him  silent  and  inactive  until  the  present 
moment,  but  he  was  angry  now  at  Quinlevin's  dastardly 
attempt  at  the  murder  of  either  or  both  of  them,  so 
nearly  successful.  And  so,  when  the  officials  of  the  train 
led  by  a  fussy,  stout,  black-bearded  individual  in  buttons, 
returned  to  question  him,  he  answered  freely,  his  replies 
quickly  translated  by  Piquette,  describing  Quinlevin. 

"A  monsieur  with  a  mustache  and  Imperiale?"  echoed 
the  stout  official,  taking  notes  rapidly  on  a  pad.  "And 
mademoiselle  had  dark  hair  and  blue  eyes ?" 

"They  were  of  the  party  of  four  in  the  second 
carriage ,"  broke  in  the  guard  whom  Jim  had  ques- 
tioned earlier  in  the  day. 

"It  is  impossible,  Monsieur.  They  left  the  train  at  St. 
Etienne." 

"A  party  of  four?"  questioned  Piquette,  astonished. 

"Oui,  Madame.  The  two  you  mention  besides  another 
man  and  an  older  woman." 

"What  did  the  other  two  look  like?"  asked  Jim,  think- 
ing of  Harry. 

"The  old  woman  had  reddish  hair  streaked  with  gray 
— the  man  was  small,  with  a  hooked  nose." 

"And  the  man  with  the  hooked  nose,  did  he  leave  at 
St.  Etienne  too?"  asked  Jim. 

"Parbleu,   now  that    you   mention   it ,"    said   the 

guard,  scratching  his  head,  "I  think  I  saw  him  a  while 
ago  at  the  rear  of  the  train." 

Jim  Horton  scowled.     "Find  the  man  with  the  hooked 
nose,  Monsieur,"  he  muttered. 
192 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


But  the  fussy  official  was  now  shrugging  and  gesticulat- 
ing wildly.  It  was  impossible  to  do  anything  more.  It 
was  like  hunting  for  a  needle  in  a  hay-mow.  His  train 
was  already  an  hour  late.  The  search  would  be  taken  up 
in  the  village  where  they  had  stopped,  but  nothing  could 
be  done  for  the  present.  The  train  would  be  thoroughly 
searched  and  then  they  must  go  on.  In  the  meanwhile 
perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  Monsieur  and  Madame  to 
change  to  a  vacant  compartment. 

Jim  Horton  protested,  but  to  no  avail.  And  after 
another  wait,  during  which  there  were  more  waving  of 
lanterns  outside  and  more  shouts,  the  train  went  on  upon 
its  way.  He  had  to  confess  himself  astonished  at  the 
desperate  measures  his  enemies  had  taken  to  prevent  his 
revelations.  Who  was  the  small  man  with  the  hooked 
nose?  It  wasn't  Harry,  who  was  tall — and  whose  nose 
was  straight.  But  when  they  were  seated  in  the  new 
place  provided  for  them,  a  thought  came  to  Jim  and  when 
the  guard  came  around  again  he  questioned. 

"Was  there  anything  especially  noticeable  about  the 
small  man  with  the  hooked  nose?"  asked. Jim. 

"I  don't  comprehend,  M'sieu." 

"Did  you  notice  anything  curious  in  the  way  he  walked 
for  instance?" 

"No — yes.  Now  that  you  mention  it,  I  think  he  walked 
with  a  slight  limp." 

Piquette  and  Jim  exchanged  quick  glances. 

"Tricot !"  gasped  Piquette. 

"You're  sure  he  is  nowhere  on  the  train?" 

"Positive,  M'sieu.     We  have  searched  everywhere." 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  some  security  therefore  that 
Jim  settled  himself  again  and  tried  to  make  Piquette 
comfortable  for  the  remainder  of  the  journey.  Neither  of 
them  felt  like  sleeping  now  and  they  talked  eagerly  of 
the  extraordinary  happening.  There  seemed  no  reason 
193 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

to  doubt  that  their  assailant  was  Tricot  and  that  the 
clever  brain  of  Quinlevin  had  planned  the  whole  affair. 
There  was  no  doubt  either  that  Quinlevin  had  told  the 
apache  of  Piquette's  part  in  the  affair  of  the  Rue  Charron 
and  that  the  shots  were  intended  as  much  for  Piquette  as 
for  him.  This  was  the  danger  in  the  path  of  those  who 
betrayed  the  secrets  of  the  underworld.  But  Piquette 
having  recovered  from  her  fright  was  now  again  quite 
composed. 

"It's  very  clear  why  Monsieur  Quinlevin  left  the  train 
at  St.  Etienne  with  Madame." 

"He  was  afraid  she  would  make  trouble." 

"Yes,  mon  Jeem.  Also,  'e  fought  Tricot  would  have 
success."  She  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  a  moment. 
"  'E  would  'ave  kill'  me  if  you  'adn'  push'  me  on  de  floor." 

"Pretty  clever,  sizing  us  up  like  that,  then  letting 
Tricot  do  his  dirty  work.  He  didn't  think  I'd  see  him. 
But  we  know  what  we're  up  against  now.  And  they'll 
waste  no  time  in  following.  I've  got  to  get  a  'gun* 
somehere,  that's  sure,  and  you've  got  to  stop  at 
Marseilles." 

"At  Marseilles?" 

He  nodded.  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you  run  your  head 
any  further  into  this  noose.  You  see  what  the  danger 
is " 

But  Piquette  only  smiled. 

"I  knew  what  de  danger  was  when  I  offer'd  to  come, 
mon  ami.  I'm  not  going  to  stay  at  Marseilles.  I'm  going 
on  wit'  you,  as  I  promisV 

"But,  Piquette " 

She  put  her  fingers  over  his  lips. 

"You  do  not  know  my  great  force  of  mind.  Besides," 
she  added,  "dey  cannot  catch  us  now." 

"I  can't  have  you  running  any  more  risks,"  he  muttered. 

"I  s'all  run  de  risk  you  run,  mon  Jeem." 
194 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


He  smiled  at  her  gently.  There  was  something  animal- 
like  in  her  devotion. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  soft  illumination  from  above,  the 
shadows  at  her  eyes  and  lips  seemed  more  than  ever 
wistful  and  pathetic. 

"Why  do  you  dare  all  this  for  me,  Piquette?" 

"Why  should  I  not  tell  you?"  she  said  gently.  "It 
makes  no  difference  to  you,  but  I  t'ink  I  should  like  you 
to  know.  It  is  because  I  love  you,  mon  Jeem." 

"Piquette !" 

"It's  true,  mon  ami.  It  'as  never  'appen  to  me  before. 
Dat's  why  I  know.  .  .  .  No,  mon  Jeem.  It  is  not 
necessaire  for  you  to  make  believe.  Voila!  You  can  'old 
my  'and.  So.  But  I  want  you  to  know.  It  was  from 
de  firs' — at  Javet's — •  'Ow  else  should  I  'ave  care'  enough 
to  go  find  you  in  de  Rue  Charron?  'Ow  else  would  I 
care  enough  to  fin*  out  de  difference  between  you  an' 
'Arry?"  She  took  a  long  breath  before  she  went  on.  "It 
did  not  take  me  long,  I  assure  you — for  you,  mon  ami, 

were  de  man  I  was  to  love  an'  'Arry "  she  paused 

painfully.  "  'Arry  was  jus*  a  mistake." 

"I — I'm  not  what  you  think  I  am,  Piquette,"  he  broke 
in  awkwardly. 

"Let  me  finish,  mon  ami,"  she  said  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand.  "Confession  is  good  for  de  soul,  dey  say.  I  want 
you  to  know  about  me.  I  am  on'y  what  de  bon  Dieu 
make  me — a  gamine.  If  'E  wish'  me  to  be  file  honnete, 
'E  would  not  make  a  gamine.  C'est  la  destinee." 

"Don't,  Piquette.     I  know." 

"Mos'  men  are  si  bete — always  de  same.  Dey  talk  of 
love —  Pouf !  I  know.  Ton  jours  la  chair.  .  .  .  But  you 
— mon  ami —  She  held  her  breath  and  then  gasped 
gently.  "You  touch'  me  gently — wit'  respec',  like  I  was  a 
queen — you  kiss  me  on  de  brows — like  I  was  a  file  bonnetet 
195 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Mon  Dieu!     What  would  you?     Is  it  not'ing  to  be  care* 
for  by  a  man  clean  like  dat?" 

"I  do  care,"  he  said  impulsively.  "Yes — and  like  that. 
I'd  give  anything  to  make  you  happy." 

She  gently  disengaged  his  arm  from  about  her  waist. 

"Den  care  for  me  like  dat — like  you  say  you  care,"  she 
said  gently.  "It  is  what  I  wish — all  I  wish,  mon  petit 
Jeem." 

He  touched  her  hand  with  his  lips  but  there  seemed 
nothing  to  say. 

"C'est  bien,"  whispered  Piquette  with  a  smile.  "I  t'ink 
you  'ave  taught  me  somet'ing,  mon  Jeem " 

"As  you've  taught  me,"  he  blurted  out,  "but  I  won't 
lie  to  you,  Piquette." 

"Dat  is  as  it  mus'  be.  An'  now  we  on'erstan'  each 
oder.  I  am  ver'  content." 

Jim  Horton,  from  embarrassment  at  the  astonishing 
confession,  began  to  understand  its  motive  and  sat  silent, 
Piquette's  hand  in  his,  aware  of  the  bond  of  sympathy 
between  them. 

"It's  a  queer  world,  Piquette,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a 
dry  laugh.  "I  care  for  somebody  I  can't  have — you 
care  for  me — why,  God  knows.  I've  made  a  fine  mess  of 
things  and  will  probably  go  on  making  a  mess  of  things 
— her  life,  mine,  yours — when  you  and  I  might  have  hit  it 
off  from  the  beginning." 

"No,  mon  Jeem,  you  were  not  for  me." 

"Piquette!" 

She  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  her  own  and  with  one 
of  her  swift  transitions  from  the  womanly  to  the  child- 
like she  pleaded. 

"An'  now  you  will  not  'ide  me  away  in  Marseilles?" 

He  smiled  at  her  earnestness  and  it  wasn't  in  his  heart 
any  longer  to  refuse  her. 

"No,  Piquette.    You  shall  go." 
196 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


And  impulsively,  with  the  innocence  that  was  a  part  of 
her  charm,  she  kissed  him  fair  upon  the  lips. 

"Ah,  mon  Jeem.     You  are  ver'  good  to  me." 

But  at  Marseilles  he  armed  himself  with  a  new  auto- 
matic and  with  the  weapon  in  his  pocket  felt  a  reasonable 
sense  of  security,  at  least  until  they  reached  their 
destination. 

Piquette  was  resourceful.  And  on  the  train  to  Nice 
found  the  answer  to  the  problem  that  neither  of  them 
had  been  able  to  solve. 

"De  ol'  woman,  wit'  de  gray  hair,"  she  said  with  an 
air  of  conviction  after  a  long  period  of  silence — "it  is 
JNora  Burke." 

"By  George!"  cried  Jim,  awakening.  "I  believe  youTre 
right,  Piquette.  Nora  Burke!  And  he's  bringing  her 
along  to  clinch  the  thing — down  here — at  Nice.'* 

She  nodded.  "But  we  s'all  reach  Monsieur  le  Due  firs', 
mon  Jeem " 

Delays  awaited  them  when  they  reached  the  Hotel 
Negresco.  Piquette  was  provided  with  the  name  which 
Monsieur  the  Due  chose  to  use  when  traveling.  Upon 
inquiry  of  the  polite  gentleman  who  presided  over  the 
destinies  of  the  guests  of  this  newest  addition  to  the 
luxuries  of  the  Promenade  des  Anglais,  they  were  informed 
that  Monsieur  and  Madame  Thibaud  had  gone  upon  a 
motor- journey  along  the  Cornice  Road. 

At  the  information,  Piquette  laughed  outright  and  the 
polite  Frenchman  frowned. 

"Is  there  anything  so  extraordinary  in  a  motor-trip 
with  Madame?"  he  asked  frigidly. 

"No — nothing,  Monsieur,"  she  replied  and  laughed 
again.  But  Jim  Horton  understood.  Monsieur  the 
Due  was  relieving  Piquette  of  a  great  moral  responsi- 
bility. 

They  were  shown  adjoining  rooms  where  they  removed 
197 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

the  traces  of  their  journey,  and  then  met  for  dinner, 
when  they  held  a  consultation  as  to  their  future  plans. 
If  Monsieur  the  Due  had  gone  on  a  motor-trip  he  might 
be  back  that  night,  or  he  might  be  away  for  a  week. 
They  found  that  Monsieur  and  Madame  had  taken  only  a 
suitcase  and  the  chances  were  that  they  would  return  to 
the  Negresco  by  the  morrow.  But  time  was  precious — 
and  it  would  not  be  long  before  Quinlevin  and  his  queerly 
assorted  company  would  be  arriving  in  Nice,  ready  in  some 
nefarious  way  to  interfere  with  their  plans.  And  so  after 
dinner  they  took  the  tram  for  Monte  Carlo,  hoping  that 
de  Vautrin's  weakness  for  gaming  would  have  led  him 
to  that  earthly  paradise  of  loveliness  and  iniquity. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  there,  but  Piquette  had 
made  no  mistake,  for  they  found  their  man  at  the  tables, 
,  so  deeply  engrossed  that  he  did  not  notice  their  approach 
or  even  look  up  when  Piquette,  ignoring  the  wonderfully 
accoutered  lady  at  his  side,  addressed  him  in  her  most 
mellifluous  tone. 

Jim  Horton  took  him  in  with  a  quick  glance  of 
appraisal — a  man  still  in  his  fifties,  about  the  age  of 
Barry  Quinlevin,  but  smaller,  with  a  thin  nose,  sharp, 
black  eyes,  a  bald  head,  and  a  dyed  mustache  waxed  to 
long  points.  And  the  hands  upon  the  green  baize  of  the 
table  wore  large  rings,  one  set  with  a  ruby,  the  other  with 
an  emerald.  That  he  was  losing  some  money  was  indicated 
by  the  pucker  of  his  bushy  eyebrows  and  the  nervous 
tapping  of  his  jeweled  fingers  upon  the  cloth. 

It  was  not  until  Piquette  had  spoken  his  Christian  name 
several  times  that  he  seemed  to  hear  and  then  looked  up, 
his  face  a  cloud  of  impatience  and  ill-temper. 

"It  is  I,  Olivier,"  she  repeated— "Piquette." 

"You — Madame!"  he  said  with  a  glance  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Piquette  coolly,  "and  it  seems 
198 


A  NIGHT  ATTACK 


that  I've  brought  you  luck,"  for  at  that  moment  a  pile  of 
gold  and  bank  notes  was  swept  in  his  direction. 

"Ah — perhaps,"  he  said  confusedly.  And  then,  "But  it 
isn't  possible.  I  was  told  that  you  were  conrng.  I 
can't  see  you  or  this  monsieur  who  comes  with  you.  Go 
away  if  you  please." 

His  attitude  was  uncompromising,  his  announcement 
bewildering,  but  Piquette  was  undismayed. 

"The  red,  Monsieur,"  she  said  calmly,  and  before  he 
could  prevent,  shoved  a  pile  of  the  gold  coins  upon  the 
color.  And  the  Due,  aghast  at  her  impudence,  sat  for 
a  moment  scowling  at  his  pile  of  money,  the  gambler  in 
him  arrested  by  the  fascinating  click  of  the  little  ball. 

"Red  wins,"  announced  Piquette,  echoing  the  croupier. 
"You  see,  Monsieur,  it  will  be  wise  for  you  to  treat  me 
with  more  politeness." 

And  as  he  still  sat  as  though  fascinated  by  the  turn 
of  his  fortune,  and  made  no  motion  to  prevent  her,  she 
put  all  the  money  she  had  won  for  him  on  the  black^ 
Black  won  and  Piquette  laughed  gayly,  while  the  woman 
beside  de  Vautrin  sat  in  silence. 

"It  does  not  do  to  venture  here  with  strange 
Goddesses." 

She  glanced  rather  scornfully  at  the  Due's  companion 
and  straightened. 

"Again,  Madame,"  muttered  de  Vautrin,  "the  wheel 
runs  for  you." 

"I  have  finished,"  said  Piquette  firmly.  "It  is  enough." 

"No,"  growled  the  Due,  thrusting  his  winnings  again 
upon  the  black. 

"You  will  lose,"  said  Piquette  calmly,  watching  the 
leaping  of  the  little  ball.  He  did — all  that  she  had  won 
for  him.  He  tried  again,  lost  more,  then  turned  on  her 
with  a  frown. 

"Sacre "  he  began. 

199 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Sh ,"  she  silenced.  "Allans.  I  did  not  come  to 

interfere  with  your  games,  but  if  Madame  Thibaud  will 

permit  us "  and  she  smiled  with  diabolical  irony  at 

de  Vautrin's  companion — "I  would  like  to  have  a  word 
with  you  at  once." 

"I  will  not  listen  to  you — or  him."  He  scowled  at  Jim, 
"I  know  what  it's  all  about.  I  don't  wish  to  see  you." 

"Are  you  mad?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  this?  I've  come  to  save 
you  from  a  great  financial  disaster " 

"You ?"  he  sputtered.  "What  are  you  doing  here, 

with  this  man?  It  is  infamous.  I  want  no  more  of  you. 
Go." 

"No,  Olivier.  I  stay,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  will 
kindly  compose  yourself  and  tell  me  who  has  been  sending 
you  lying  telegrams." 

"A — a  friend  in  Paris." 

"Ah!     #hat  did  he  say?" 

"What  does  it  matter  to  you  what  he  said?"  gasped 
de  Vautrin.  "You  are  in  love  with  this  monsieur.  Eh 
bien!  Go  to  him.  I  don't  care.  I'm  through  with  you." 

"Ah,  no,  you're  not,  Olivier,"  said  Piquette,  smiling 
calmly,  "not  until  I'm  through  with  you."  And  then, 
soberly:  "Don't  be  a  fool.  Your  petit  bleu  was  sent  by 
Monsieur  Quinlevin.  He  has  the  best  of  reasons  for  not 
wanting  you  to  see  us.  Will  you  listen  to  me  now?" 

Quinlevin's  name  had  startled  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  sputtered. 


CHAPTER  XV 

GREEN  EYES 

FR  a  moment  after  Jim  Morton's  departure  Moira 
sat  in  her  arm-chair,  her  head  buried  in  her  arms, 
more  than  half  stupefied.     One  horrible  revelation 
had   followed  another  with  such  rapidity  that  she  was 
aghast  at  the  complete  disruption  of  all  the  ties  that  had 
made  her  life.     And  this  last  tie — the  strongest  and  the 
weakest  of  all — that  too  had  been  broken  as  relentlessly  as 
the  others. 

She  straightened  slowly,  her  face  haggard  with  her 
suffering,  but  she  did  not  move  from  her  chair  and  her 
fingers  clutched  its  arms  fiercely.  Her  eyes,  staring 
blankly  past  Quinlevin,  were  following  Jim  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  Rue  de  Tavennes,  but  her  fingers  still 
clung  to  the  chair-arms  and  her  body  did  not  move.  It 
seemed  that  her  limbs  refused  to  obey  her  will  to  follow. 
Then  after  a  moment,  she  sank  down  again,  crushed, 
bruised  and  nerveless. 

She  felt  the  touch  of  Quinlevin's  hand  upon  her  shoulder 
and  his  voice  whispering  at  her  ear. 

"There,  acushla !  I'll  be  explaining  it  all  to  you  in  the 
morning.  Go  to  your  room  now,  child,  and  rest." 

She  obeyed  him  silently,  mechanically,  not  replying  or 
looking  at  him  or  at  Harry.  Her  throat  like  her  eyes  was 
dry,  and  parched,  as  though  with  fever,  but  her  hands, 
like  her  heart,  were  ice  cold.  In  the  sanctuary  of  her  own 
room  with  the  doors  closed,  she  threw  herself  headlong 
upon  the  bed,  racked  for  a  while  by  shuddering  soundless 
sobs — and  then  after  a  while  merciful  tears  came. 
201 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Jim,"  she  whispered  hopelessly  into  the  darkness. 
"Jim,  forgive  me!" 

Her  fingers  groped  for  her  crucifix  and  clung  to  it, 
seeking  strength  and  courage.  And  after  a  long  while 
the  spasm  of  weeping  stopped  and  she  lay  motionless 
and  soundless,  scarcely  breathing.  She  knew  in  her 
heart  that  what  she  had  done  was  best  for  Jim's  soul's 
good  and  her  own,  but  her  heart  cried  out  against  the 
cruelty  of  it.  And  yet  she  was  sure  that  if  she  had 
followed  him  beyond  the  studio  door,  she  would  have  gone 
out  with  him  into  the  world,  glorying  in  her  shame.  She 
had  chosen.  Her  one  brief,  gorgeous,  pitiful  romance 
was  over. 

And  what  was  there  left  for  her  here  at  the  studio  but 
the  shattered  fragments  of  ruined  affections?  She  had 
lived  a  lie — was  living  it  now — like  her  father.  .  .  .  She 
started  up  at  the  horror  that  she  had  forgotten  and  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts; 
then  she  rose  with  an  effort,  groped  for  the  matches  and 
lighted  her  candle.  Her  father?  By  his  own  admission 
— her  father  no  longer.  Who  was  she  then?  A  waif? 
The  daughter  of  de  Vautrin?  Her  mirror  sent  her  back 
a  haggard  reflection,  pale,  somber,  but  with  blu^-black 
eyes  that  gazed  steadily  from  their  swollen  lids.  Strength 
she  had  prayed  for,  and  courage  to  do  what  was  right 
to  do,  and  she  needed  them  both  now.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  studio.  She  glanced  at 
her  clock.  For  hours  it  seemed  she  had  lain  upon  her 
bed  of  pain. 

With  a  new  resolution  she  bathed  her  face  and  wrists 
in  cold  water,  then  went  through  the  kitchenette  into  the 
studio  to  find  Barry  Quinlevin.  He  was  not  there,  but  her 
husband  was, — crouched  in  the  armchair  by  the  table  and 
the  whisky  bottle  was  empty. 

She  shuddered  a  little  but  approached  him  resolutely. 
202 


THE  MIRROB  SENT  HEB  BACK  A  HAGGARD  BEFLECTION,  PALE  AND  SOMBER 


GREEN  EYES 


He  tried  to  rise  but,  with  a  dull  laugh  and  fumbling  the 
arm  of  the  chair,  fell  sideways  into  a  grotesque  attitude. 

"Where  is ?"  she  began,  and  halted. 

"Gone  out,"  he  mumbled,  struggling  into  a  straighter 
posture,  "back  soon." 

"Where  has  he  gone?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Dunno.  Asked  me  to  stay — take 
care  of  you,  m'dear." 

She  turned  awav  from  him,  in  disgust. 

"Oh — don'  worry,"  he  went  on — "not  goin'  bother  you. 
After  t'morr' — won'  see  me,  y'know " 

She  turned  quickly  and  he  laughed  again. 

"Goin'  join  m'regimen'.     Furlough  up  t'morr'." 

She  whispered  a  "Thank  God"  below  her  breath  as  she 
stood  looking  at  him.  And  then  aloud,  gently,  in  a  new 
kind  of  pity  for  him. 

"You'd  better  lie  down,  Harry,  and  get  some  sleep," 
she  said,  "or  you'll  be  in  no  condition  to  go  en  duty." 

"Thanks.  Ought  to  sleep.  Haven'  slep'  f'r  weeks, 
seems  to  me.  Don'  seem  to  care  though." 

"You'd  better.  There's  a  room  outside.  Your  bag- 
gage is  there  too." 

"Um — that's  nice  of  you,  Moira.  R'turnin'  good  for 
evil.  Baggage.  He  brought  it — didn'  he?" 

"Yes,  Harry." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair  while  she  watched  him  curiously. 

"Rotten  mess!    What?"  he  mumbled. 

She  didn't  reply.  And  he  went  on,  concentrating 
thought  with  difficulty.  "He  told  you  I  tried — kill  him 
— didn'  he?"  He  wagged  his  head  comically.  "I  couldn' 
do  that — not  kill  'im — wouldn't  do  y'know — m'own 
brother — no — not  that " 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  eyes  a  moment  and  swayed,  but 
Moira  steadied  him  by  the  shoulder. 
203 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Harry — come.     I'll  help  you.     You  must  go  to  bed." 

"Not  yet — in  a  minute.     Somethin' — say." 

He  groped  for  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  found  and 
clung  to  it. 

"Shame  Pm  such  rotter,  Moira.  Beas'ly  shame.  I'm 
not  half  bad  sort  if  leave  me  'lone.  I  was  sick — out  there. 
Head  of  Levinski — grinned  at  me.  Gold  tooth — grinned 
at  me — in  wheatfield " 

"Come,  Harry,"  she  broke  in  again,  "lean  on  me.  I'll 
help  you  to  bed." 

"Ah,  I  was  sick  awright "  he  shuddered,  oblivious 

of  her.  "Makes  me  sick  now — think  of  it.  Jus'  a  head, 
Moira,  nothin'  else.  But  God!  What  a  head!" 

"It  won't  do  you  any  good  now  to  think  about  that," 
she  put  in  quickly,  for  he  was  shivering  as  though  with  a 
chill. 

"No.  No  goo'  now.  Awf  rotter,  ain't  I?" 

"Come " 

He  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  she  helped  him  to  support 
himself. 

"Will  you  forgive  me,  Moira?" 

"Of  course." 

And  as  she  urged  him  out  of  the  door  toward  the 
vacant  room,  "Knew  y'would,"  he  mumbled.  And  then, 
"Goo'  ol'  Moira !" 

In  the  room  she  helped  him  off  with  his  coat,  puttees 
and  shoes  and  then  pulling  a  blanket  over  him  left  him  to 
his  own  devices  and  went  back  to  the  studio  to  wait  for 
Barry  Quinlevin. 

But  she  wasn't  weary  now.  From  the  same  reserve 
force  from  which  she  drew  the  strength  to  stand  for 
hours  and  paint  even  when  her  sitters  were  weary,  she 
gained  new  courage  and  resolution  for  the  return  of 
Quinlevin.  But  for  a  moment  she  was  tempted  again. 
The  way  was  clear.  What  was  to  prevent  her  from  going 
204 


GREEN  EYES 


and  finding  Jim?  For  a  moment  only.  Then  she  sank 
into  the  chair  by  the  fireplace — to  fight  her  battle  with 
herself  and  wait.  Her  glance  restlessly  passed  from  one 
familiar  object  to  another,  the  portrait  on  the  easel,  the 
lay  figure  in  the  corner  in  its  fantastic  pose  and  hetero- 
geneous costume,  the  draperies  for  her  backgrounds, 
hanging  just  as  they  had  hung  this  afternoon,  and  yet 
all  so  strangely  changed.  The  door  of  the  closet  where 
Jim  had  been  hidden  remained  open,  exhibiting  its  untidy 
interior.  Instinctively  she  rose  and  closed  it,  her  sense 
of  order  triumphant  even  over  her  mental  sufferings. 
Then  she  went  back  and  sat  down  to  think.  There  was 
much  that  she  and  her — that  she  and  Barry  Quinlevin 
would  have  to  say  to  each  other. 

He  came  at  last,  expecting  to  find  Harry  and  not  the 
straight  figure  of  the  woman  who  faced  him  like  a  pale 
fury.  The  shadows  of  pain  at  her  eyes  were  gone,  lost 
in  deeper  shadows  of  anger  and  determination. 

"You!     Moira,"  he  said  in  surprise. 

«Yes,  I " 

"Where's  Harry?" 

"I  put  him  to  bed.     He  was  drunk,"  she  said  shortly. 

"The  devil  he  was!"  He  frowned  darkly  and  then 
seemed  as  ever,  quite  the  master  of  himself.  If  the  glance 
he  cast  at  her  discovered  her  state  of  mind,  he  gave  no 
sign  of  uneasiness.  He  approached  her  with  his  easy  air 
as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened,  but  when  he  spoke 
again  his  voice  was  pitched  low  and  his  eyes  were  soft. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  in  bed,  child " 

"I've  something  to  say  to  you "  she  cut  in  quickly. 

"Oh,  very  well, — say  on,  my  dear.  You  don't  mind 
if  I  smoke  a  cigarette?" 

As  she  made  no  reply  he  lighted  one  and  sank  into  the 
most  comfortable  chair  with  a  sigh  of  content. 
205 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"At  least  you  owe  me  something,  Barry  Quinlevin,"  she 
began  tensely,  trying  to  keep  her  voice  under  control,  and 
announcing  her  leit  motif,  so  to  speak,  in  her  first  phrase. 
"I'm  no  chattel  of  yours,  no  infant  any  longer,  to  be 
bandied  about  as  a  dupe  in  your  wild  plans  for  the  future. 
It's  my  future  you're  dealing  with  just  as  you've  dealt 
with  my  past " 

"Have  ye  had  any  cause  to  complain  of  my  treatment 
of  ye?"  he  broke  in  calmly. 

"You've  cheated  me — lied  to  me  all  my  life — isn't  that 
enough?  Kept  me  in  ignorance  of  the  source  of  our 
livelihood — God  knows  what  else — made  me  a  partner  in  a 
crime — without  my  knowledge — made  me  help  you  to  get 
dishonest  money " 

"Hardly,"  he  said.     "It  was  yer  own  money." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said  icily,  "if  it  was  my 
money  you  would  have  gotten  it  for  me — all  of  it — long 
ago." 

"And  lost  yerself,  my  dear,  to  the  Due  de  Vautrin,"  he 
countered  quickly. 

She  started  slightly.  That  possibility  hadn't  occurred 
to  her.  But  she  went  on  rapidly. 

"You  forget  that  I  heard  what  you  said  to  Harry — 
That  I  know  what  has  been  in  your  heart  all  these  years. 
I  was  your  decoy  and  you  used  me  as  you  pleased,  glad 
of  my  working,  which  kept  me  busy  so  that  I  couldn't  be 
inquiring  what  was  going  on.  You  forget  that  I  heard 
why  you  wanted  me  to  marry  Harry,  but  7  can't  forget  it 
— would  to  God  I  could — and  you'd  dare  to  ask  me  if 
I  have  anything  to  complain  of,  knowing  all  that  and 
knowing  that  7  know  it.  Do  you  think  I'm  a  mere  piece 
of  furniture  without  a  soul,  not  to  care  what  my  heritage 

is,  not  to  cherish  my  traditions ?  You've  built  my 

life  on  a  lie,  destroyed  my  very  identity  in  a  breath,  torn 
206 


GPEEN  EYES 


down  all  the  sacred  idols  of  my  girlhood  and  young 
womanhood  and  ground  them  under  youi  feet.  You!" 

She    caught  at  her  heart  and  took  a  step  nearer  him. 

"My  mother — who  was  my  mother?"  she  gasped. 

He  shrugged.  "Mary  Callonby — the  Duchesse  de 
Vautrin,"  he  said  easily.  "And  you  are  Patricia  Madeline 
Aulnoy  de  Vautrin." 

"Impossible.    I'm  no  longer  credulous." 

"You'll  have  to  believe  the  truth!" 

"And  who  are  you  to  ask  me  to  believe?  You  who 
dared  to  speak  to  me  of  the  sanctity  of  motherhood,  who 
taught  me  that  I  was  your  own  daughter — and  that  my 
mother,  your  wife " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob,  quickly  controlled. 

"It  was  because  I  loved  ye,  Moira  dear,"  he  said  very 
quietly. 

She  halted,  aghast  at  this  tenderness,  the  familiar  tones 
of  which  made  her  wonder  for  a  moment  whether  she 
weren't  dreaming  all  the  dreadful  accusations  on  her 
tongue's  end.  But  a  pain  shot  through  her  heart  to 
remind  her  of  her  sufferings. 

"And  was  it  because  you  loved  me  that  you  dared 
obliterate  me,  sneered  at  my  pitiful  love  affair — the  only 
passion  I've  had  in  my  life  or  will  have — and  even  tried 
to  murder  in  coid  blood — the — the  object — of  it?  Answer 
me  that — Barry  Quinlevin !" 

The  Irishman's  manner  now  changed.  His  brows  drew 
together  in  a  tight  knot  and  the  long  fingers  upon  the 
chair-arm  clenched  until  the  knuckles  were  white. 

"I'll  answer  ye  that,"  he  said  abruptly.  "And  more. 
I've  heard  what  ye  had  to  say  with  patience  and  chagrin. 
I'll  take  the  blame  for  me  sins  of  omission  where  blame 
is  due,  trusting  to  yer  conscience  to  be  forgiving  me 
presently  for  yer  harsh  tones  to  one  who  sinned  for  the 
very  love  of  ye.  But  when  ye  speak  of  this  other  man 
207 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

who  by  a  trick  forces  his  way  into  yer  lodgings  and  yer 
affections,  learns  yer  family  secrets  and  mine,  reads  yer 
letters  and  mine,  makes  love  to  his  own  brother's  wife 
behind  his  back, — yer  own  brother-in-law,  mind  ye — and 
then  tells  one  lie  after  another  to  make  his  story  good, 
its  time  there  was  a  man  about  the  place  to  protect  ye, 
if  ye  can't  protect  yerself " 

"Stop !» 

"No.  I've  heard  you.  Now  ye'll  be  listening  to  me. 
If  Harry  isn't  man  enough  to  be  looking  out  fer  what 
belongs  to  him,  then  I  am.  Ye've  given  this  man  yer 
heart,  acknowledged  yer  affections  before  us  all.  God 
be  praised  that's  all  it  amounts  to !  But  when  ye  hear 
me  out,  ye'll  be  wishing  yer  tongue  had  rotted  before 
ye'd  made  such  an  admission.'* 

He  saw  her  shrink  and  he  rose  from  his  chair,  following 
up  his  advantage  quickly.  "There — there  my  dear* 
Ye've  almost  had  enough  of  trouble  for  one  night " 

"Go  on,"  she  murmured  stanchly,  "but  if  you're  going 
to  speak  ill  of  Jim  Horton  I  won't  believe  you." 

"Ye  can  do  as  ye  please  about  that,  but  I'll  be  telling 
ye  what  I  know  of  him  just  the  same.  And  when  I  tell 
ye  I  wish  I'd  shot  him  dead  before  yer  eyes,  I'd  only  be 
satisfying  the  conscience  of  yer  life-long  guardian  and 
protector " 

"Conscience!  You!"  she  laughed  hysterically.  "Go 
on." 

"I  will,  little  as  ye'll  like  it.  When  I  went  from  here 
where  d'ye  suppose  I  went?  To  Pochard.  And  I  wrung 
from  him  the  truth  about  yer  friend  Jim  Horton.  It 
was  Piquette  Morin  who  helped  him  from  the  house  in 
the  Rue  Charron " 

"I  know  it.     I  thank  God  for  it." 

"It  was  Piquette  Morin  who  took  him  back  to  her 
208 


GREEN  EYES 


apartment  in  the  Boulevard  Clichy  and  kept  him  there 
until  he  recovered.*' 

"I  know  that  too.     Go  on — — " 

"But  ye  didn't  know  that  Piquette  Morin  was  a  woman 
without  a  shred  of  conscience  or  morals,  a  woman  of  the 
streets,  who  glories  in  her  infidelities  to  the  Due  de 
Vautrin,  whose  mistress  she  is " 

"I  care  nothing  for  that,"  stammered  Moira. 

"Ye  may  not  care,  since  Jim  Horton  has  lied  about 
that  too,  but  ye  will  care  about  the  relations  that  exist 
between  the  two  of  them." 

"I  won't  listen,"  said  Moira,  making  for  the  door.  But 
he  barred  her  way. 

"Oh,  yes,  ye'll  listen,  Moira  dear,  and  I'll  be  giving  ye 
all  the  proofs  ye  need  before  I'm  through." 

"Proofs  !    I  dare  you." 

"All  in  good  time.  If  ye'll  be  patient.  Where  do  ye 
think  I  went  from  Pochard's?  To  the  Boulevard  Clichy, 
where  yer  precious  friend  had  returned  to  the  arms  of 
Madame  Morin " 

She  waved  a  hand  in  protest. 

"I  watched  the  door  of  the  apartment.  He  came  out. 
I  followed,  and  where  do  you  suppose  he  went?  To  the 
ticket  office  where  he  booked  a  compartment  for  two — 
on  the  twelve  o'clock  train  to-morrow  for  Marseilles." 

"And  what  of  that?"  she  stammered. 

"Merely  that  yer  friend  Jim  Horton,  failing  of  success 
with  his  brother's  wife,  has  decided  upon  a  honeymoon  to 
the  Riviera  with  a  lady  who  js  more  complaisant?  than 
yerself." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Ye'd  find  it  less  difficult  to  believe  if  ye  guessed  how- 
mad  she  was  fer  him,  how  handsome  she  is  and  how  skilled 
in  the  wily  arts  of  her  sex  and  trade,"  he  said  keenly. 
"Oh,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug,  "it  could  only  have  been  a 
209 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

great  passion  that  would  have  dared  the  rescue  from  the 
house  in  the  Rue  Charron.  And  no  man  remains  long 
ungrateful  for  such  an  act  of  unselfishness." 

Moira  leaned  against  the  mantel-shelf,  staring  at  him 
wide-eyed,  but  he  met  her  look  with  one  more  steady  than 
hers,  hardy,  indignant,  but  injured  and  grieved  too  at 
her  attitude.  Skillfully  he  had  baited  his  hook  with  a 
truth  that  she  knew.  He  saw  the  fleeting  question  in 
her  eyes  and  answered  it  quickly. 

"If  ye  want  the  proofs go  to  the  Boulevard  Clichy 

now."  He  paused  to  give  the  suggestion  weight,  "Or  if 
ye've  no  heart  to-night  for  such  a  brutal  encounter — • 
to-morrow — on  the  train  to  Marseilles." 

He  had  caught  her  ear.  He  knew  it  by  the  sudden 
shutting  of  her  teeth  over  her  words,  the  proud  lift  of  her 
chin,  the  hard  look  that  came  into  her  eyes.  And  though 
she  answered  him  still  defiantly,  her  tone  had  no  body  in 
it  and  trembled  with  the  new  uncertainty. 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"I  don't  ask  ye  to.  But  ye  mil  believe  in  the  evidence  of 
yer  eyes,  and  I'll  be  providing  ye  with  that,  my  dear." 

"How  you  hate  him !"  she  gasped. 

He  shrugged  and  turned  half  toward  her. 

"Hate?  Hardly.  I  merely  despise  him.  I  would  have 
killed  him  to-night  with  a  clean  conscience,  knowing  what 
I  do."  He  dropped  the  cigarette  he  had  taken  up  and 
approached  her  a  pace  or  two.  "Oh,  Moira,  alanah, 
won't  ye  see?  Is  it  blind  ye  are  to  the  truth  that  lies 

before  yer  very  eyes ?  Can't  ye  see  that  it's  the  love 

of  ye  that  drives  me  to  protect  yer  happiness?  Have  I 
ever  failed  ye,  all  these  years?  Haven't  I  given  ye  yer 
share  of  all  I  had?  Answer  me  that — aye — even  when 
there  was  not  too  much  for  the  both  of  us?" 

"I — I've  heard  enough — to-night,"  she  said  wearily. 

"I'm  sorry.  I — I've  done  what  I  thought  was  the  best. 
210 


GREEN  EYES 


I'm  still  yer  guardian — until  ye  come  into  yer 

"I  can't  listen  to  that,"  she  shuddered.  "De  Vautrin 
— my  father!" 

He  bowed  his  head  with  tragic  grace. 

"The  same — bad  cess  to  him." 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  bewildered  and  helpless. 

"I  want  nothing1 — only  to  go  away  somewhere  alone. 
I've  heard  enough." 

"That  you  shall  do  presently,  alanah,"  he  said,  touch- 
ing her  gently,  the  familiar  voice  close  at  her  ear.  "But 
now  you  must  be  going  to  bed  and  trying  to  sleep.  'Tis 
a  cruel  day  ye've  had — cruel !  But  to-morrow  when  ye've 
had  some  rest " 

"To-morrow ?"  she  raised  a  despairing  face. 

"Ye've  got  to  be  facing  it.  But  no  more  to-night. 
Come." 

She  let  him  take  her  by  the  arm  to  the  door. 

"Forgive  me,  acushla,"  he  whispered. 

But  she  made  no  reply  and  left  him  standing  there. 
And  Quinlevin  watched  her  merge  into  the  darkness  within, 
then  turned  and  picked  up  the  cigarette  he  had  dropped, 
lighted  it  with  great  care,  and  sat  and  smoked,  ruminat- 
ing over  the  ashes  in  the  fireplace. 

But  he  had  played  his  cards  with  the  true  gambler's 
knowledge  of  the  psychology  of  his  victim.  Jealousy! 
Such  a  weapon  at  his  very  hand.  It  was  almost  a  pity 
to  use  it.  Poor  child.  As  if  she  hadn't  already  suffered 
enough!  But  there  was  no  choice.  And  she  would  get 
over  it.  Love  never  killed — only  hate  .  .  only  hate. 
He  finished  one  cigarette  and  then  glanced  toward  the 
door  through  which  Moira  had  passed.  Then  lighted 
another  and  composed  himself  for  awhile  longer. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  near  the  end  of  this  cigarette 
that  a  slight  sound  caused  him  to  look  up  over  his 
shoulder.  Framed  against  the  black  opening  Moira  stood, 
211 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

pale,  dark  eyed,  her  black  hair  streaming  over  her  flimsy 
dressing-gown,  and  then  came  forward  noiselessly. 

"Moira,  child !"  he  cried,  rising,  with  an  air  of 

surprise. 

"You  must  show  me  the  proof ,"  she  stammered, 

"what  you  said — to-morrow." 

"Yes.     If  ye  insist " 

**I  do.  It's  a  test — of  the  truth — between  you  and — 
and  him " 

"I'll  provide  it.  Ye'll  leave  with  me  on  the  twelve 
o'clock  train  for  Marseilles?" 

"Yes— anything." 

"Very  well,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  arrange  for  it.  I've 
some  business  in  Nice.  It's  just  as  well  if  you  come 
along." 

"Anything ,"  she  whispered,  shivering  and  still  pro- 
testing, "but  I  don't  believe — I  don't  believe " 

"Go  to  bed  again,  child.     I'll  call  ye  in  the  morning." 

As  she  disappeared  he  turned  toward  the  mantel,  hiding 
the  smile  of  triumph  that  crossed  his  lips.  Then  he 
leaned  for  a  long  while  looking  into  the  hearth. 

"Poor  child !"  he  whispered.  "  'Tis  a  cruel  pity,  but — " 
He  paused  and  then  turned  toward  the  bottle  upon  the 
table,  which  he  raised  and  examined  carefully,  then  set 
down  with  an  air  of  disgust.  "The  drunken  scut!"  he 

muttered,  then  swore  softly  below  his  breath. 

*  #  #  #  # 

What  remained  of  Quinlevin's  task  was  not  difficult,  for 
he  had  already  anticipated  his  success  with  Moira  by 
making  arrangements  with  Nora  Burke  and  Tricot,  Nora 
to  face  de  Vautrin  with  her  confession  and  her  evidence, 
Tricot  to  help  him  in  keeping  Jim  Horton  from  reaching 
the  Duke. 

By  the  expression  of  Moira's  face  when  they  met  in  the 
studio  in  the  morning,  he  discovered  that  his  poison  had 
212 


GREEN  EYES 


worked  its  slow  course  through  her  veins.  Irish  she  was 
— all  Irish  now — slow  to  love  and  quick  to  jealousy — 
proud  to  the  quick,  and  capable  of  a  fine  hatred  when 
the  proofs  were  brought  as  Barry  Quinlevin  intended 
to  bring  them.  She  listened  with  an  abstracted  air  as  he 
told  her  that  her  old  nurse,  Nora  Burke,  and  a  man,  a 
friend  of  his,  were  to  be  the  other  members  of  their  party. 
She  showed  some  surprise  and  then  a  mild  interest,  but 
he  could  see  that  to  Moira  her  companions  meant  very 
little.  She  was  thinking,  brooding  somberly  over  what 
he  had  told  her,  and  his  air  of  confidence  in  his  under- 
taking did  nothing  to  give  her  courage  for  her  decision. 
And  yet  he  knew  that  she  would  abide  by  it — a  choice  be- 
tween Jim  Horton  and  himself.  And  he  knew  already 
what  that  choice  was  to  be.  For  reasons  of  his  own  it 
was  important  that  Jim  Horton  and  Piquette  should  not 
see  him  on  the  train ;  nor  that  Moira  should  be  presented 
merely  with  the  evidence  of  the  two  of  them  entering  the 
train.  The  evidence  must  be  condemnatory.  He  would 
wait  and  trust  to  circumstances. 

The  thing  was  simplicity  itself.  The  window  into  the 
corridor  was  like  a  dispensation.  He  passed  the  com- 
partment once  or  twice  to  make  sure  that  the  shade  of 
the  little  window  had  not  been  drawn  and  then  when  it 
grew  dark  saw  that  Piquette  had  gone  fast  asleep  with 
her  head  on  Horton's  shoulder.  Then  he  acted  quickly. 

"Come,"  he  said  to  Moira.  "It  is  time  I  showed  you 
who  is  the  liar." 

And  resolutely  she  followed  him,  looked — and  saw. 
#  #  #  #  # 

Nothing  seemed  to  matter  to  her  after  that.  Incre- 
dulity, surprise  and  then  guilt,  all  expressed  so  clearly 
in  Jim  Horton's  face  in  the  brief  moment  when  their 
glances  had  met.  The  pretty  painted  face  upon  his 
shoulder,  the  arm  that  he  withdrew  from  around  the 
213 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

woman's  waist,  her  sudden  awakening  as  he  started — all 
these  brief  impressions  so  vivid,  so  terrible  in  their  sig- 
nificance, armed  her  with  new  strength  and  courage  to 
hide  her  pain  from  Nora  Burke  and  Barry  Quinlevin.  He 
watched  her  with  admiration.  Her  heart  might  be  break- 
ing but  she'd  never  whimper  now.  He  knew  her. 

"Are  ye  satisfied,  my  dear?"  he  asked, 

"Yes.    Quite,'*  she  gasped. 

"And  you'll  be  listening  to  Nora  while  she  tells  ye  the 
truth?" 

"I  will." 

"Good.  I  must  be  leaving  ye  for  a  while  to  talk  with 
my  friend.  And  don't  be  distrusting  me  again,  alanah." 

Moira  was  silent  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  into  the 
darkness  until  Nora  came.  And  she  listened  to  the  tale 
that  Nora  Burke  told,  or  seemed  to  listen,  and  thus  Quin- 
levin found  them  later,  the  girl's  hand  in  that  of  her  old 
nurse. 

The  announcement  that  they  were  to  get  out  of  the 
train  at  St.  Etienne  created  no  astonishment.  Moira 
moved  as  in  a  dream,  obeying  blindly  as  she  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  obey  the  suggestions  of  her  protector, 
caring  nothing  for  their  significance  and  reassured  as  to 
the  integrity  of  his  intentions  with  regard  to  herself. 
There  was  no  doubting  that  he  loved  her  in  his  strange 
way.  And  the  fury  he  had  expended  upon  Jim  Horton 
seemed  scarcely  less  than  that  she  now  felt  for  him.  A 
man  could  kill — but  a  woman  could  only  despise. 

She  was  at  least  thankful  when  she  saw  the  train 
bearing  the  couple  pass  out  of  her  sight  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  followed  Quinlevin  where  he  led — to  a  hotel 
for  the  night — to  another  train  in  the  morning,  to  Mar- 
seilles, to  Nice,  and  the  Hotel  Ruhl,  where  in  the  privacy 
of  a  room  of  her  own,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and 
gazed  dry-eyed  at  the  ceiling. 
214 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NORA  SPEAKS 

Y  I  ^HE  attention  of  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  having  been 
attracted  by  Piquette's  news  of  the  immediate 
threat  against  his  fortune,  it  was  no  longer  dif- 
ficult to  persuade  him  to  listen  to  what  Jim  Horton  had 
to  say.  Madame  Thibaud  was  therefore  conducted  with 
scant  ceremony  to  an  apartment  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris, 
after  which  the  Due  rejoined  Piquette  and  Jim  in  the 
Casino.  The  unflattering  opinion  Jim  Horton  had  formed 
of  this  French  nobleman  was,  upon  closer  acquaintance,  in 
no  way  modified.  The  peevish  and  supercilious  air  with 
which  he  had  greeted  Piquette  had  changed  to  one  scarcely 
less  unpleasant, — a  fidgety  anxiety  and  apprehension 
which  revealed  weaknesses  of  fiber  one  would  not  have  ex- 
pected to  discover  between  the  points  of  so  long  and  so 
imposing  a  mustache.  He  gave  Jim  the  impression  of 
being  very  weary  in  the  pursuit  of  a  will-o'-the-wisp. 
And  in  repose,  his  face  bore  the  scars  worn  by  those  who 
live  for  pleasure  alone.  Altogether  he  seemed  a  person 
scarcely  worth  borrowing  so  much  trouble  about.  His 
attitude  of  suspicion  toward  Jim  Horton  was  illy  con- 
cealed, but  he  listened,  frowning  and  questioning,  until 
at  last  convinced  of  the  reality  of  his  danger  at  the  hands 
of  the  renegade  Irish  adventurer  to  whose  venial  clever- 
ness he  had  so  long  paid  handsome  tribute. 

"But  they  can  do  nothing,"  he  said  at  last  in  excel- 
lent English,  with  an  air  of  bravado  which  was  meant  to 
be  effective,  and  which  was  only  pitiful. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  Jim,  "the  mere  fact 
215 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

of  jour  having  paid  for  the  support  of  the  child  for  so 
many  years  makes  it  seem  as  though  you  believed  in  the 
thing." 

"What  do  I  care?  I  have  the  money.  Let  them  take 
it  if  they  can." 

"Oh,  they'll  take  it  all  right,  if  you  don't  find  some 
way  to  meet  their  evidence." 

"Lies." 

"Yes,  of  course.  BU'J  you've  got  to  prove  that  they 
are.  Where's  your  defense?  You  didn't  even  know  you 
had  a  daughter  until  Barry  Quinlevin  told  you  you  had. 
What  proof  have  you  that  your  own  child  died?  And  if 
you  believed  Quinlevin  then,  why  shouldn't  you  believe 
him  now ?" 

"I  had  my  suspicions " 

"Pardon  me.  Suspicions  won't  satisfy  an  Irish  court 
or  a  French  one.  What  proof  have  you  that  Madame 
Horton  isn't  your  own  child?  None?  Exactly!  But 
everybody  who  could  have  known  anything  about  the 
matter  is  dead  except  Nora  Burke,  and  you've  already 
heard  what  she  has  to  say." 

"H — m.  And  what  is  your  interest  in  this  matter, 
Monsieur?" 

"That's  a  fair  question,"  said  Jim  slowly.  "I'll  give 
you  a  fair  answer.  Madame  Horton  is  my  brother's 
wife.  The  story  I've  given  you  is  straight — as  Piquette 
will  tell  you  since  she  heard  much  of  it  from  my  brother. 
Your  daughter  died  shortly  after  her  mother,  your  wife. 
My  interest  in  this  affair  is  personal  to  this  extent.  I 
don't  intend  to  have  Madame  Horton  used  any  longer 
by  an  unprincipled  blackmailer." 

"Surely  then  you  would  have  told  Madame  Horton 
the  truth  and  saved  me  this  unpleasantness ' 

«Yes— I've  told  her,"  said  Jim  slowly,  "but  she's  help- 
less.  Can't  you  see,  Monsieur?  It  has  all  been  very  sud- 
216 


NORA  SPEAKS 


den — for  her.  She  doesn't  know  what  to  believe.  Be- 
sides, Monsieur  Quinlevin  has  the  birth  certificate  and  the 
testimony  of  the  nurse." 

"But  if  Madame  Horton  is  an  honorable  woman " 

"You  can  count  on  that,"  put  in  Horton  quickly. 
"She  doesn't  want  your  money — she  isn't  Quinlevin's 
kind " 

"Then  why  doesn't  she  renounce  him?" 

"She  might — but  what  difference  would  that  make? 
She  might  permit  herself  to  think  she  was  Joan  of  Arc, 
but  that  wouldn't  make  her  any  one  but  Patricia  Made- 
leine Aulnoy  de  Vautrin,  if  Barry  Quinlevin  has  evidence 
enough  to  prove  that  she  is.  .  .  ." 

De  Vautrin  frowned  darkly  and  twitched  his  jeweled 
fingers. 

"But  she  would  have  something  to  say  about  her  own 
desires  in  the  matter,"  he  said. 

"Her  own  desires  haven't  anything  to  do  with  it.  See 
here,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin — Barry  Quinlevin  proves  her 
birth  by  a  certificate;  he  also  proves  by  the  nurse  that 
she  was  the  child  brought  into  his  house,  and  the  child  he 
has  brought  up  as  his  ward,  bearing  his  name  and  ac- 
cepting your  money  for  twenty-one  years — hush  money, 
monsieur,  that  you  paid  to  keep  her  out  of  a  fortune  you 
thought  belonged  to  her." 

"But  it  doesn't  belong  to  her,"  cried  de  Vautrin,  ges- 
ticulating. "It's  mine  since  the  child  is  dead.  Monsieur 
Harry  Horton " 

Piquette  broke  in.  "Monsieur  'Arry  'Orton  could  be 
call'  to  the  stan'  of  course,  but  'is  testimony  is  not  to  be 
relied  upon." 

"Your  brother,  Monsieur ?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,"  replied  Jim,  "my  brother 
— but  an  intimate  of  Barry  Quinlevin's " 

"Ah,  I  comprehend — an  accomplice?" 
217 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  might  call  him  that — if  you  like."  He  shrugged 
and  turned  aside.  "We  don't  get  along,  my  brother  and 
I,  but  I  don't  think  you'll  find  much  to  gain  by  putting 
him  on  the  witness  stand.  Besides,  it  won't  look  very 
pretty  in  the  papers.  It's  as  much  to  my  interest  as 
yours  to  keep  it  out." 

The  Due  eyed  him  suspiciously  again. 

"But  you  must  have  some  other  interest  besides  this 
in  wishing  to  help  me.  What's  the  ax  you  have  to  grind, 
Monsieur?" 

Jim  Horton  grinned  and  shrugged. 

"For  myself — nothing." 

"That  is  difficult  to  believe." 

"Then  I  would  advise  you  to  tax  your  imagination  to 
the  utmost.  I  don't  want  Madame  Horton  to  figure  in, 
an  affair  that  she  will  regret  the  rest  of  her  life." 

"But  why ?" 

"Monsieur  is  in  love  wit'  Madame  'Orton "  Pi- 

quette's  voice  broke  in  very  calmly. 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  moment  in  which  Jim  Horton 
looked  at  Piquette,  Piquette  gazed  at  de  Vautrin  and  de 
Vautrin  stared  from  one  to  the  other  in  astonishment. 

His  knowledge  of  the  world  had  given  him  no  instinct 
to  appraise  a  situation  such  as  this.  But  Piquette  met 
his  gaze  clearly. 

"It  is  de  trut>,  Olivier,"  she  repeated.  "An*  now  per- 
haps you  on'erstan'." 

"It  is  extraordinary,"  he  gasped.  "And  you  two ?" 

"I  brought  'im  to  you.  Your  interests  are  de  same — 
and  mine,  wit'  both." 

"Parbleu!     If  I  could  believe  it !" 

Jim  Horton  rose,  aware  of  a  desire  to  pull  the  waxed 
mustaches  to  see  if  they  were  real. 

"You  needn't  believe  it,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  he  said 
carelessly.  "And  you  don't  have  to  believe  my  story. 
218 


NORA  SPEAKS 


But  I've  given  you  your  warning.  Barry  Quinlevin  may 
be  in  Nice  now,  with  his  birth  certificate  and  his  Nora 
Burke."  He  buttoned  his  overcoat  and  turned  toward 
the  door.  "I  think  I'll  be  going  back  to  Nice,  Piquette," 
he  said  coolly,  and  then  to  the  bewildered  Frenchman, 
"Good-night,  Monsieur." 

"One  moment,"  gasped  the  Due,  toddling  after  him 
and  catching  him  by  the  hand,  "I  believe  you,  Monsieur. 
Why  should  I  not  believe  you  since  what  you  say  is  what 
I  wish  to  believe?  It  is  all  very  bewildering.  I  should 
have  thanked  you  long  ago  for  your  kindness." 

Jim  Horton  turned  with  a  smile. 

"It's  about  time.  And  it  ought  to  be  fairly  clear  that 
I  have  little  interest  in  your  fortune  or  even  in  you,  Mon- 
sieur. I  don't  mind  being  shot  at  for  my  interference  in 
Mr.  Quinlevin's  affairs,  but  I  might  have  been  hit — or 
Piquette  might — which  would  have  been  worse,  and  I 
don't  relish  having  my  word  doubted — or  hers." 

"I  beg  forgiveness.     You  have  been  shot  at?" 

Piquette  explained  quickly  while  de  Vautrin's  watery 
eyes  grew  larger. 

"Mon  Dieu!    And  you  say  they  are  coming  here?" 

"Yes.  If  their  dinky  little  train  ever  reaches  its  des- 
tination. I'm  afraid  you're  in  for  it,  Monsieur  de  Vau- 
trin." 

De  Vautrin  threw  out  his  arms  wildly. 

"I  will  not  see  them.  I  will  go  away." 

Jim  Horton  nodded.  "That's  all  right — but  it's  only 
putting  off  the  evil  moment.  When  they  get  their  evi- 
dence working  you'll  have  to  meet  it,  someway.  And  then 
what  will  you  do?" 

De  Vautrin  had  caught  Jim  by  the  coatsleeve  and 
pulled  him  down  into  the  seat  beside  him.  And  then  with 
a  pseudo-dramatic  air  which  failed  of  conviction, 

"I  shall  fight,  Monsieur." 

219 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"With  what?" 

"With  the  evidence  you've  given  me." 

"It's  not  enough." 

Horton  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"It  looks  to  me  as  though  you  were  elected  President  of 
the  Quinlevin  Endowment  Association." 

"But  there  must  be  some  way  of  getting  at  the  truth," 
cried  the  Frenchman,  now  really  pitiful  in  his  alarm. 

"Ah,  that's  it,"  laughed  Jim.  "You  know  Madame 
Horton  is  not  your  daughter  and  /  know  it,  but  that 
doesn't  beat  Quinlevin." 

"What  then,  Monsieur?" 

"You've  got  to  kill  his  evidence." 

"But  how?" 

"With  stronger  evidence  of  your  own.  You  haven't  it, 
or  any  prospect  of  getting  it  that  I  can  see.  So  there's 
only  one  course  open." 

"And  that,  Monsieur?"  asked  de  Vautrin  eagerly. 

"To  break  down  Quinlevin's.  I'm  no  lawyer,  but  that's 
only  common  sense.  Nora  Burke  is  a  liar  bribed  with  five 
thousand  pounds.  And  there  never  was  a  lie  that  didn't 
have  its  weak  points.  You've  got  to  make  her  speak  the 
truth " 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  wouldn't  mind  trying.  Then 
you've  got  to  get  that  birth  certificate " 

"I  don't  see  how  you  expect  to  do  that." 

"Neither  do  I — Quinlevin  is  no  fool,  but  then  he's  not 
super-natural  either." 

The  Due  was  silent,  appalled  by  the  undertaking  which 
had  presented  itself.  And  the  calm  way  in  which  his 
visitor  discussed  his  projects  filled  him  with  wonder. 

"Justice,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,  is  on  your  side.  Will 
you  fight  for  it?" 

"Assuredly,  Monsieur — if  you  will  but  help." 
220 


NORA  SPEAKS 


Jim  Horton  laughed. 

"Then  you  no  longer  believe  I  have  an  ax  to  grind?" 

"No — no,  Monsieur." 

"And  you  no  longer  cherish  evil  thoughts  of  Piquette?" 

"Upon  my  honor,"  said  the  Due,  a  jeweled  hand  at 
his  heart.  "And  yet,  Monsieur,  you  can  hardly  blame 
me  for  some  irritation  at  meeting  her  here  with  you." 

Jim  Horton  glanced  toward  the  door  significantly. 
And  then  dryly,  "You  hardly  deserve  her,  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin.  I  am  proud  of  her  friendship.  It's  the  finest 
thing  in  my  life." 

De  Vautrin  wagged  his  head  foolishly  and  then 
shrugged  a  futile  shoulder. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Monsieur?"  he  asked 
peevishly. 

Horton  lighted  a  cigarette  carefully  and  took  Piquette 
by  the  hand. 

"First,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,"  he  said  coolly,  "you  will 
send  Madame  Thibaud  about  her  business " 

"Monsieur !"  said  the  Due  with  a  show  of  dignity. 

"Suit  yourself.  But  she's  in  the  way.  This  is  no  time 
for  fooling.  Does  she  go  or  doesn't  she?" 

De  Vautrin's  injured  dignity  trembled  in  the  balance 
for  a  moment  and  then  fell  away,  merged  in  his  appre- 
hension for  the  immediate  future. 

"That  can — can  doubtless  be  arranged,"  he  said  with 
a  frown. 

"Good,"  said  Horton  jovially.  "And  the  sooner  the 
better.  It  will  clear  the  atmosphere  amazingly.  Tnen 
we  will  prepare  to  fight  Monsieur  Quinlevin  with  his  own 
weapons." 

«\ye p>» 

"Yes.  You — I — Piquette.     That's  what  we  came  here 
for.  You've  made  the  mistake  of  under-rating  Barry  Quin- 
221 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

levin.  He's  desperate.  He  is  playing  a  big  game  and  if 
you  don't  want  to  be  the  goat  you'll  do  what  I  advise." 

"I'm  listening." 

"If  I'm  not  mistaken  he  will  reach  here  to-morrow  af- 
ternoon with  Madame  Horton  and  Nora  Burke.  And 
you've  got  to  see  them." 

"I— Monsieur?" 

"Yes — you — here  in  your  rooms  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris. 
You  will  give  it  out  that  you  are  here  for  a  week.  They 
must  take  rooms  in  Monte  Carlo.  Then  you  will  listen 
politely  to  everything  Quinlevin  has  to  say — to  every- 
thing Nora  Burke  has  to  say,  but  you  yourself  will  say 
nothing." 

"But  you,  Monsieur?" 

"I  shall  be  in  an  adjoining  room,  but  they  must  not 
know  it." 

"But  Barry  Quinlevin  will  discover  that  you  have  been 
here." 

"Of  course.  You  will  tell  him  that.  They  will  tell  you 
that  I  have  lied.  But  you  won't  believe  them.  And  then 
you  will  tell  them  that  I  have  gone  away." 

"But  when  will  you  come  in  to  my  assistance?" 

"That  depends  upon  what  I  hear  through  the  keyhole." 

"But  would  it  not  be  simpler  to  pay  this  Nora  Burke 
for  telling  the  truth?" 

Horton  laughed.  "It  does  seem  simple,  doesn't  it? 
I  don't  know  much  about  French  law,  but  I  wouldn't 
want  to  be  caught  at  it  out  where  I  come  from.  Let's 
play  this  game  straight  and  trust  to  luck.  If  Quinlevin 
is  too  sharp  for  us  we'll  try  something  else.  Do  you 
agree  ?" 

"Of  course,  Monsieur." 

And  so  it  was  settled.  On  the  following  morning 
Madame  Thibaud  was  sent  back  to  Paris.  And  Piquette 
and  Jim  Horton  ostentatiously  took  the  train  for  Nice, 
222 


NORA  SPEAKS 


returning  subsequently  by  automobile  to  Monte  Carlo, 
where  they  were  hidden  in  rooms  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris. 
In  this  they  were  aided  by  an  official  of  the  Hotel  who 
proved  to  be  an  old  acquaintance  of  Piquette's  in  Paris. 
And  so  when  Barry  Quinlevin  arrived  from  Nice  in  the 
afternoon,  with  Moira  and  Nora  Burke,  inquiring  for 
the  Due,  the  information  was  conveyed  directly  to  Hor- 
ton,  who  was  happy  to  learn  that  Tricot  had  not  yet 
caught  up  with  the  party. 

Monsieur  de  Vautrin,  who  had  been  carefully  rehearsed 
in  the  part  he  was  to  play,  seemed  to  enter  into  the  game 
with  some  spirit,  and  was  sent  over  to  the  Casino  to 
play  trente  et  quarante  where  after  awhile  Barry  Quin- 
levin found  him,  deeply  absorbed  in  his  game  of  chance. 
The  Due  manifested  polite  surprise,  Quinlevin  polite  in- 
sistence, and  then  they  talked  for  awhile,  the  Due  in- 
differently, Quinlevin  impressively, — to  the  end  that  an 
appointment  was  made  for  an  hour  later  the  following 
afternoon  in  the  Due's  apartment,  where  he  would  listen 
in  all  good  nature  and  tolerance  to  what  his  visitors 
would  have  to  say.  He  hoped  his  "daughter"  was  hand- 
some. It  would  be  a  pity  if  all  this  money  was  to  go  to 
one  who  could  not  use  it  with  dignity.  All  this  in  an 
ironic  and  jocular  mood  which  only  brought  a  dour  smile 
upon  Quinlevin's  face. 

But  the  main  object  of  the  preliminary  encounter  was 
achieved,  for  Barry  Quinlevin  accepted  without  reserva- 
tion the  Due's  assertion  that  Jim  Horton,  having  per- 
formed his  mission,  had  returned  to  Paris. 

When  the  hour  of  the  appointment  arrived,  Jim  Hor- 
ton sat  behind  the  door  into  the  bedroom  of  Monsieur 
de  Vautrin,  carefully  studying  the  pages  of  an  English- 
French  dictionary.  The  Due  sat  over  his  paper  with  an 
air  of  unconcern  he  was  far  from  feeling.  Piquette, 
at  the  American's  instructions,  was  elsewhere. 
223 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Quinlevin,  shown  to  the  door  of  the  room  by  a  servant 
of  the  hotel,  met  the  Due  with  his  most  amiable  smile  and 
introduced  the  women  of  his  party.  Moira  was  pale, 
Nora  Burke  uncomfortable  but  arrogant. 

"Monsieur  de  Vautrin,"  Quinlevin  began  with  some- 
thing of  an  air,  "permit  me  to  present  to  ye  yer  daugh- 
ter, Patricia  Madeleine  Aulnoy  de  Vautrin.'* 

The  Due  smiled  politely,  bowed — and  stared.  Moira, 
who,  as  though  in  duty,  had  taken  a  step  toward  him, 
paused.  And  then  as  she  saw  the  look  that  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin  swept  over  her,  the  color  flamed  into  her  cheeks. 
The  Due's  rebuff  gave  for  the  first  time  a  true  percep- 
tion of  the  position  in  which  she  had  voluntarily  placed 
herself.  If  she  were  a  mere  adventuress  he  could  not  have 
accused  her  more  eloquently  and  the  admiration  in  his 
impudent  stare  was  even  more  insulting.  This  man — this 

effete  boulevardier — her  father ?  Impossible!  And 

the  repulsion  she  felt  at  the  sight  of  him  made  her  wish 
only  to  go  anywhere  away  from  the  sight  of  him.  What 
else  she  had  expected,  she  didn't  know,  for  even  Barry 
Quinlevin  had  not  been  too  explicit  as  to  what  would  be 
likely  to  happen.  But  there  was  her  mentor  at  her  side, 
a  gentle  hand  upon  her  elbow  urging  her  forward  into 
the  arrn-chair  by  the  window,  which  Monsieur  de  Vautrin 
was  indicating  with  a  rather  exaggerated  gesture  of  for- 
mality. 

"Thanks,  Monsieur,"  said  Quinlevin  with  an  easy  laugh, 
sinking  into  another  chair.  "Ye're  not  to  be  blamed  for 
not  flying  to  each  other's  arms  after  all  these  years,  when 
yer  acquaintance  in  the  beginning  was  to  say  the  least  a 
most  trivial  affair.  But  in  a  while,  perhaps,  ye'll  be 
knowing  each  other  better  and  I'm  sure,  Monsieur,  ye'll 
be  finding  my  ward  as  I  have  done,  a  fine  creature  capable 
of  a  most  filial  devotion." 

"Ah,"  said  de  Vautrin.  "I  don't  doubt  that.  It  would 
224 


NORA  SPEAKS 


truly  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  discover  so  beautiful 
a  creature  to  be  a  daughter  of  mine,  but  the  facts  of  the 
matter  unfortunately " 

"One  moment,  Monsieur,"  broke  in  Quinlevin,  "before 
we  arrive  at  the  facts  in  the  matter.  Ye  must  be  aware 
that  this  situation  is  none  of  my  ward's  choosing.  She 
came  because  she  knew  that  it  was  a  sacred  duty  which 
she  owed  to  the  memory  of  her  mother.  Many  years  have 
passed  since  yer  affairs — er — called  ye  away  from  Ire- 
land and  she  lays  no  fault  to  yerself  for  yer  desertion, 
for  which  I  have  taken  all  the  blame.  She  knows  that 
ye've  provided  for  her  comfortably,  and  that  I  have  made 
it  my  pleasure  to  act  as  yer  substitute,  as  well  as  I 
could.  But  the  time  has  come  when  she  must  take  her 
place  in  the  world  to  which  she  belongs,  and  it's  my  duty 
to  be  putting  her  there.  To  this  end,  as  ye'll  see,  I've 
brought  with  me  her  old  nurse,  Nora  Burke,  with  whom 
ye're  already  acquainted,  and  who  will  be  answering  any 
questions  that  ye  would  like  to  put  to  her." 

Monsieur  de  Vautrin  frowned  and  moved  his  gaze  from 
Moira  to  the  servant  who  stood,  her  large  hands,  badly 
gloved,  folded  upon  her  stomach,  her  feet  shifting  un- 
easily. 

"I've  heard  something  of  Nora  Burke's  story,"  said 
de  Vautrin  dryly,  "but  there  are  parts  of  it  that  I  have 
not  heard." 

"Ye're  quite  at  liberty  to  question,  Monsieur,"  put  in 
Quinlevin,  "Nora  too  is  merely  an  instrument  of  truth 
in  the  hand  of  Providence." 

"Since  Providence  has  ceased  providing,"  said  the  Due 
dryly,  "I  comprehend.  But  I  will  listen  to  this  extraor- 
dinary tale  again,  since  I  have  promised  to  do  so.  It 
can  do  no  harm.  Allans!  Proceed,  Nora  Burke.  My 
poor  wife,  you  say,  engaged  you  some  weeks  before  my 
daughter  was  born?" 

225 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"She  did,  yer  Highness "  And,  as  the  woman  hesi- 
tated  

"Go  on,  Nora,"  said  Quinlevin. 

"The  choild  was  born,  this  very  girl  they  call  Moira 
Quinlevin,  who  sits  before  ye,  a  beautiful  choild  she  was, 
fine  and  healthy  that  the  poor  Duchesse  never  lived  to  see, 
for  she  died  that  night,  God  rest  her  soul,  faded  away 
before  our  very  eyes." 

"And  who  was  there  beside  yourself,"  asked  the  Due 
coolly. 

"Dominick  Finucane,  the  doctor  from  Athlone,  and 
Father  Reilly,  the  priest  who  gave  her  Absolution " 

"And  who  has  since  died,"  said  de  Vautrin  dryly. 

"Yes,,  yer  Highness — but  the  birth  certificate  I  was 
afther  kapin*  since  no  father  came  near  us,  nor  any  re- 
lation. Mary  Callonby  was  a  lonely  kind  and  when  she 
came  back  to  Galway  took  to  living  solitary-like  on  the 
small  farm  with  only  the  one  servant,  Mrs.  Boyle,  to  look 
afther  her." 

"And  Mrs.  Boyle  is  also  dead?"  put  in  de  Vautriu 
keenly. 

"She  is." 

"It's  very  unfortunate  that  all  the  witnesses  have  seen 
fit  to  die." 

"All  but  me,  yer  Highness,"  said  Nora  assertively. 

De  Vautrin  shrugged.  "Well.     What  happened  then?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Boyle  and  meself,  we  didn't  know  what  to 
be  afther  doing,  so  we  just  followed  the  advice  of  Father 
Reilly." 

"And  what  did  he  tell  you  to  do?" 

Nora  glanced  at  Quinlevin,  who  nodded. 

"In  a  whoile  he  brought  Mr.  Barry  Quinlevin — this 
gentleman  here — who  lived  on  the  only  place  nearby,  and 
tould  us  to  be  going  to  his  home.  Mr.  Quinlevin  was 
226 


NORA  SPEAKS 


afther  bein*  very  lonely,  he  said,  his  own  wife  and  colleen 
havin'  died  a  few  months  before." 

"That  was  kind  of  Mr.  Quinlevin." 

"We  thought  so — yer  Highness — but  it  was  kind  of 
Father  Reilly  too — for  nobody  was  afther  coming  to  see 
about  the  poor  choild  and  Mr.  Quinlevin  was  that  grate- 
ful— he  watched  the  babby  like  it  was  his  own " 

"That's  true  enough.  He  would,"  sneered  the  Due. 
"And  what  happened  then?" 

"Mrs.  Boyle  and  I  we  lived  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Quin- 
levin, her  as  cook  and  me  as  nurse,  bringin'  up  the  choild 
as  Miss  Moira  Quinlevin, — alone  in  the  house  for  wakes 
at  a  toime,  when  Mr.  Quinlevin  was  afther  bein'  away  to 
London  or  Paris  on  business.  But  all  the  whoile  I  was 
kapin'  the  birth  certificate  an'  all  the  whoile  tryin'  me 
best  to  take  the  place  of  poor  Mary  Callonby." 

"And  you  were  well  paid  for  this  service?"  asked  de 
Vautrin. 

"I  had  me  wages.    It  was  enough." 

"And  when  you  heard  that  Mr.  Quinlevin  had  seen  me 
in  Paris,  two  years  afterward,  you  received  more  money?" 

Nora's  glance  sought  Quinlevin,  who  broke  in  calmly. 

"I  gave  Nora  as  well  as  Mrs.  Boyle  a  bit  more,  ye  un- 
derstand— a  proper  share  of  the  sum  for  the  support  of 
the  child.  And  they  agreed  to  say  nothing."  He  fingered 
in  his  pocket  and  brought  forth  a  paper.  "This,  as  ye 
can  plainly  see,  is  a  copy  of  the  birth  certificate  of  yer 
child." 

"And  the  original?"  asked  the  Due. 

"Will  be  produced  at  the  proper  time,"  said  Quinle- 
vin shrewdly. 

De  Vautrin  took  the  paper  and  read  it  carefully. 

"And  where  is  Mrs.  Boyle  at  the  present  moment?"  he 
asked.  "Dead  also?" 

227 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Three  weeks  ago,"  said  Quinlevin  calmly.  "It's  most 
unfortunate — but  her  signature  can  be  verified." 

"H — m.  And  Father  Reilly  also.  Of  course,"  said 
the  Due  with  a  quick  glance  toward  his  bedroom  door. 
"And  there  are  other  papers  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Quinlevin.  "Letters  from  you — accom- 
panying yer  checks — which  guarantee  yer  verbal  agree- 
ment in  Paris.  The  will  of  Patrick  Callonby  and  a  few 
other  trifles  which  are  important  to  ye." 

"And  you  think  your  case  is  complete?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite.  An  Irish  court  won't  hesitate  very 
long  just  at  this  time  in  carrying  out  the  provisions  of 
this  will." 

Monsieur  de  Vautrin  smiled.  "And  what  do  you  wish 
me  to  do?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"To  perform  merely  an  act  of  restitution,  an  act  of 
justice  to  yer  own.  Ye  know  the  terms  of  the  will.  In 
the  event  of  the  mother  dying,  her  fortune  was  to  revert 
unconditionally  to  the  child.  But  she's  to  be  considerate 
of  yer  age  and  the  relation  that  exists  between  ye,  which 
however  strange  it  may  seem  to  ye  both  at  this  time,  is 
that  of  father  and  only  daughter.  Ye've  both  formed  the 
habits  of  yer  lives — yerself  living  bachelor-fashion  in 
Paris  and  London.  Yer  daughter  is  disposed  to  be  gen- 
erous and  does  not  wish  to  interfere  with  yer  plans  for 
the  future.  She  will,  if  you  please,  still  keep  the  matter 
secret,  and  go  on  living  with  me — yerself  to  continue  in 
the  comfortable  life  of  yer  bachelorhood." 

"And  your  terms?"  asked  de  Vautrin  quietly. 

Barry  Quinlevin  pocketed  the  copy  of  the  birth  cer- 
tificate which  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  had  put  upon  the 
table. 

"As  to  terms,  that  won't  be  made  difficult.  The  estate 
of  Patrick  Callonby  was  reckoned  at  a  million  pounds 
sterling — we'll  say  twenty  millions  of  francs  or  there- 
228 


NORA  SPEAKS 


abouts — since  ye're  not  a  man  of  business  and  allowing 
for  depreciation.  Give  yer  daughter  proper  securities  to 
the  amount  of  one  third  of  her  fortune  and  she  will  as- 
sign the  other  two  thirds  to  you " 

Quinlevin  paused,  for  when  the  terms  were  mentioned 
Monsieur  de  Vautrin  had  begun  to  smile  and  now  burst 
into  an  unpleasant  laugh. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,"  broke  off  Quinlevin  an- 
grily. 

"It's  merely,"  he  replied,  "that  you  don't  figure  enough 
for  depreciation." 

"What  do  ye  mean?" 

"Twenty-one  years  is  a  long  while.  And  you  are  right 
when  you  say  that  I  am  no  man  of  business.  My  fortune 
has  diminished  year  by  year  and  since  the  war — pouf! 
it  has  vanished  into  thin  air.  The  estate  of  Patrick  Cal- 
lonby,  Monsieur,  is  now  a  myth." 

Barry  Quinlevin  rose,  trying  to  keep  his  temper. 

"There  are  ways  of  verifying  yer  statements,  Mon- 
sieur." 

"Of  course.  I  commend  you  to  them.  And  Nora  Burke, 
who  might  have  told  me  the  truth  last  summer  in  Ire- 
land, when  I  was  disposed  to  be  generous." 

"I've  tould  the  truth,"  asserted  Nora  doggedly,  in 
spite  of  her  bewilderment. 

"And  how  much  more  will  you  tell  when  there's  no 
money  for  the  telling?"  said  de  Vautrin,  rising. 

For  at  this  moment  the  door  into  the  adjoining  room 
opened  and  Jim  Horton  strode  quickly  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 

HORTON  did  not  look  at  Moira  and  quickly  sought 
out  the  tall  figure  of  the  astonished  Irishman, 
who  stood  by  the  table,  glaring  angrily. 

"What's  this,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin?"  he  asked. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Horton  quickly,  "but  my  de- 
parture has  been  delayed  by  the  necessity  for  presenting 
some  evidence  which  had  been  overlooked  by  Mr.  Quin- 
levin." 

"A  trick — Monsieur  de  Vautrin,"  stormed  the  Irish- 
man. "I'll  have  none  of  him,"  and  moved  toward  the 
door  into  the  corridor.  But  Jim  Horton  had  reached  it 
ahead  of  him,  and  quickly  locking  the  door,  put  the  key 
into  his  pocket,  turned  quickly,  his  height  topping  Quin- 
levin's,  his  bulk  dominating  him. 

"I'm  afraid  you  must,"  said  Horton  coolly. 

"Must !"     Quinlevin  struggled  for  his  temper  and 

then,  realizing  that  he  was  doing  his  cause  no  good, 
shrugged  a  careless  shoulder  and  glanced  toward  the  door 
into  the  adjoining  room. 

"And  yer  compagnon  de  voyage?  Is  she  to  be  with  us 
also  ?"  he  said  insultingly,  for  Moira's  benefit. 

Horton  met  Moira's  glance  as  she  took  a  pace  forward 
toward  him. 

"By  what  right  do  you  keep  me  here  against  my  will?" 
she  asked  in  angry  disdain. 

He  faced  her  coolly. 

"By  every  right  you've  given  me — to  act  in  your  in- 
terest whether  you  wish  it  or  not." 
230 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


"I'm  quite  capable  of  looking  after  my  own  affairs," 
she  cut  in  quickly. 

He  smiled  quietly. 

"If  I  thought  so,  I  shouldn't  be  here." 

"Will  you  unlock  that  door?"  she  asked  icily. 

He  did  not  move  and  his  level  gaze  met  hers  calmly. 
"No,  Moira "  he  said  gently,  "I  won't." 

"Oh !"  she  gasped  furiously,  then  turned  her  back  and 
went  to  the  window  where  she  stood  silently  looking  down 
over  the  garden. 

Without  noticing  her  further  Horton  turned  toward 
Quinlevin. 

"You  seem  to  have  forgotten  your  conversation  with 
me  in  the  hospital  at  Neuilly,  Mr.  Quinlevin,  and  the 
intimate  blood-ties  that  bind  me  to  your  fellow-conspira- 
tor, Harry  Horton." 

Quinlevin  had  sunk  into  a  chair  in  an  attitude  of 
careless  grace  and  playing  this  old  gambler's  game  smiled 
grimly  up  into  the  face  of  the  enemy. 

"Yer  talents  for  the  dramatic  will  be  getting  ye  into 
trouble,  Mr.  Horton.  I've  only  to  be.  asking  Moira  to 
shout  for  help  from  the  window  to  land  ye  in  a  jail.  But 
I  confess  to  some  idle  curiosity  as  to  yer  reasons  for  this 
behavior.  And  I  warn  ye  that  when  ye  unlock  the  door 
I'll  see  ye  into  the  prison  at  Monaco.  In  the  meanwhile 
I'll  tell  ye  that  what  ye  say  will  be  held  against  ye." 

"And  what  of  the  evidence  I  hold  against  you,  Barry 
Quinlevin?" 

"The  evidence  of  a  deserter  from  the  American  army," 
Quinlevin  sneered.  "Let  it  be  brief  and  to  the  point,  Cor- 
poral Horton." 

"You  don't  alarm  me,"  said  Horton  calmly.  "I've  dis- 
counted that.  Give  me  up  to  the  Provost  Guard  and  my 
brother  will  go  on  the  witness  stand,  against  me,  but 
against  you  too,  Mr.  Quinlevin,  in  Monsieur  de  Vautrin's 
231 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

interests."  Horton  laughed  easily  as  the  Irishman  re- 
fused a  reply.  "Come.  Perhaps  it  won't  be  necessary  to 
go  so  far  as  that.  If  your  friend  Tricot  had  done  his 
shooting  at  Marboeuf  a  little  lower  neither  Piquette  nor 
I  would  be  here  to  oppose  you." 

Jim  Horton  saw  Moira  turn  from  the  window  with 
startled  eyes  at  Tricot's  name,  but  he  went  on  carelessly. 
"But  here  I  am,  and  I'm  not  easy  to  kill,  Mr.  Quinlevin. 
If  I  came  through  at  Boissiere  Wood  I'm  not  likely  to  get 
hit  now.  So  you'd  better  listen  to  me." 

"I've  been  doing  little  else  these  ten  minutes,  Mr.  Hor- 
ton," said  Quinlevin,  yawning  politely. 

"I  won't  waste  any  more  time  than  I  can  help,  but 
when  you  promise  Nora  Burke  five  thousand  pounds  for 
telling  a  lie  I  want  to  give  her  her  money's  worth." 

He  turned  to  the  old  woman  with  a  frown  as  he  caught 
her  off  her  guard  but  Quinlevin  broke  in  quickly. 

"See  here,  Horton,  I've  had  about  enough  of  this " 

The  Irishman  rose  furiously,  but  Horton  took  a  quick 
pace  toward  him. 

"Keep  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets,  Quinlevin,"  he 
shouted  warningly.  "I'm  younger  than  you — and 
quicker.  That's  better.  And  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,  you 
will  please  close  the  window.  The  interview  is  apt  to 
be  noisy." 

The  Irishman  knew  that  he  was  no  match  in  physical 
strength  for  the  American,  and  so  he  sank  into  his  chair 
again,  Horton  near  him  in  a  commanding  position  where 
he  could  watch  Nora  Burke.  He  was  conscious  of  Moira's 
gaze  from  the  corner  by  de  Vautrin.  She  had  not  spoken 
bjit  he  knew  that  he  had  her  attention  again. 

"Five  thousand  pounds  for  a  He,"  he  said  distinctly 
over  Quinlevin's  head.  "That's  true,  isn't  it,  Nora?" 

But  the  woman  had  had  time  to  regain  some  of  her 
232 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


composure  after  the  sudden  shock  of  his  first  accusation 
and  turned  on  him  defiantly. 

"It  is  not,"  she  replied.  "And  the  man  lies  who  says 
it.* 

"Even  if  it  was  Mr.  Quinlevin  himself?"  said  Horton. 

"Say  nothing,  Nora,"  the  Irishman's  voice  broke  in 
quickly.  "No  one  can  make  you  speak," 

"But  when  he  says " 

"Silence!" 

Horton  shrugged.  "As  you  please.  But  she'll  have  to 
answer  later,  and  it  won't  be  so  easy  then.  Five  thousand 
pounds  is  a  lot  of  money " 

"It's  a  lie " 

"Silence!"  from  Quinlevin. 

"It's  a  mighty  small  sum,  Nora  Burke,  for  so  big  a 
lie." 

When  the  woman  opened  her  mouth  to  speak  again 
Quinlevin  silenced  her  with  a  gesture.  But  her  face  was 
flushed  and  she  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  glar- 
ing at  her  tormentor,  who,  it  seemed,  had  just  begun  his 
inquisition. 

Horton  smiled  at  her  grimly. 

"It's  a  mighty  small  sum,  Nora — especially  as  you're 
not  going  to  get  any  of  it — unless  Mr.  Quinlevin  has  other 
means  at  his  disposal." 

"I  want  no  money  from  Mr.  Quinlevin." 

"Then  you're  just  lying  for  the  fun  of  it?  Do  you 
happen  to  know  what  the  penalty  for  false-swearing  is  in 
France?" 

"Don't  let  him  frighten  you,  Nora,"  interjected  the 
Irishman. 

"It's  Excommunication,"  said  Horton,  grinning  at  his 
own  invention. 

Nora  was  silent  but  her  face  was  a  study  in  her  vary- 
233 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

ing  emotions.  She  had  not  bargained  for  this,  and  her 
knees  were  shaking  under  her. 

Quinlevin's  laugh  reassured  her  a  little. 

"I'm  not  believin'  ye "  she  muttered. 

"You  don't  have  to  believe  me — but  you'll  wish  you'd 
never  left  Galway  when  Monsieur  de  Vautrin's  lawyer  gets 
through  with  you — and  nothing  at  the  end  of  it  all  but  a 
French  jail." 

"I  never  did  any  harm  in  me  life." 

"Except  to  forget  to  speak  the  truth.  You're  getting 
old,  Nora.  Maybe  that's  what's  the  matter  with  your 
memory.  Because  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  is  certain  that 
the  facts  about  the  birth  of  his  child  are  quite  different 
from  those  you've  related.  You've  said  that  Mary  Cal- 
lonby's  child  was  this  very  girl  called  Moira  Quinle- 
yin ?" 

"I  did — she  was,"  blurted  Nora  furiously. 

"And  before  she  died — that  very  night — she  gave  the 
child  a  Christian  name?" 

"She  did." 

"You're  very  sure  of  this?" 

"Nora !"  warned  Quinlevin. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  Why  wouldn't  I "  cried  Nora, 

"when  I  was  hearin'  the  very  words  of  her  tongue." 

"And  the  child  was  a  girl?" 

"Yes— a— a  girl " 

Quinlevin  rose,  glaring  at  Horton. 

"Silence,  Nora!" 

"Then  why,"  insisted  Horton,  "if  the  child  was  a  girl, 
was  it  given  the  Christian  name  of  a  boy?" 

"A  boy !" 

Nora  Burke  started  back  a  pace,  her  round  foolish 
face,  usually  florid,  now  the  color  of  putty. 

"Nora!"  Quinlevin  roared.     "Keep  silent,  d'ye  hear?" 

But  it  was  too  late  to  repair  the  damage  done.  Horton 
234 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


had  not  taken  his  gaze  from  Nora  Burke's  face,  and  he 
knew  that  he  had  struck  his  mark.  He  was  aware  of 
Moira,  who  had  come  forward  and  was  leaning  on  the 
table  near  him,  watching  as  eagerly  as  he. 

Jim  Horton  shrugged  and  brought  quickly  from  his 
pocket  a  small  red  book,  which  he  opened  at  a  page  care- 
fully dog-eared. 

"This  little  book  is  a  dictionary  of  French  and  English, 
Nora.  It's  a  very  good  dictionary.  Here's  a  page  of 
Christian  names  in  French  and  in  English.  Here  jou 
are:  Patrice — Patrick.  Can  you  tell  me  in  the  name  of 
all  that's  sensible  why  Mary  Callonby  named  the  child 
Patrick  unless  it  was  a  boy?" 

Nora  gasped  for  breath  once  or  twice,  glancing  at 
Quinlevin,  who  shrugged  and  frowned. 

"The  name  upon  the  birth  certificate  is  Patricia,"  he 
growled. 

"Then  who  changed  it?"  asked  Horton  keenly,  glaring 
at  Nora. 

"Not  I,  sor.     I — I  can't  write,"  she  gasped. 

Jim  Horton  laughed. 

"It  couldn't  have  been  Father  Reilly,  or  Dr.  Finucane. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Quinlevin  will  produce  the  certificate." 

"When  the  time  comes,"  gasped  Quinlevin,  "ye'll  see 
it — in  a  court  of  law." 

"And  the  death  certificate  of  your  own  child  too,  Mr. 
Quinlevin?"  asked  Horton  amiably. 

"Ay — that  too,"  he  stammered  in  his  rage  as  he  faced 
the  American,  "but  you  won't  be  there  to  see.  For  on 
my  evidence  you'll  be  shot,  my  friend  the  masquerader." 

"I'll  have  to  run  that  chance " 

Moira's  voice,  tense,  shrill  with  nervousness,  broke  in 
as  she  caught  Quinlevin  by  the  arm. 

"No,  never.    You  will  not  dare.    I  forbid  it." 

"We'll  see  to  that » 

235 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

The  Due,  who  at  last  seemed  to  have  recovered  his 
initiative,  came  forward  with  an  air  of  alacrity. 

"Perhaps,  Monsieur  Horton,  it  is  just  as  well  if  you 
now  unlock  the  door." 

Horton  looked  at  his  wrist  watch. 

"Willingly.  Oblige  me,  Monsieur."  And  he  handed 
de  Vautrin  the  key.  "Unless  there  are  some  further  mat- 
ters Mr.  Quinlevin  wishes  to  discuss." 

Jim's  gaze  met  Moira's  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  and 
brief  as  it  was,  he  seemed  to  find  a  glimpse  of  that  fool's 
paradise  in  which  he  had  lived  for  a  while.  And  then  her 
glance  turned  from  him  to  Quinlevin  as  she  moved  past 
Horton  toward  the  door.  Nora  Burke,  her  stolidity 
shaken,  her  arrogant  mien  fallen  amid  the  wreck  of  her 
probity,  sent  a  fleeting  glance  over  her  shoulder  toward 
the  long  mustaches  of  de  Vautrin  and  stumbled  after 
Moira. 

But  the  Due  was  in  high  feather  again  and  fairly 
danced  to  the  door. 

"Wih  you  give  me  your  Paris  address,  that  I  may  send 
you  the  money,  Mr.  Barry  Quinlevin?"  he  shouted  after 
him  into  the  corridor. 

There  was  no  reply.  Quinlevin's  clever  house  of  cards 
had  toppled  and  fallen.  But  Horton  followed  down  the 
corridor  when  they  turned  the  corner  and  watched  what 
happened.  At  the  landing,  the  Irishman  made  a  gesture 
and  the  two  women  went  in  the  direction  of  their  rooms, 
while  Quinlevin  passed  down  the  stairs. 

When  Horton  returned  to  the  room  the  Due  closed 
the  door  and  came  delightedly  toward  him. 

"Ah,  mon  ami.  It  was  as  good  as  a  play.  How  did  you 
know  that  my  child  was  not  a  girl — but  a  boy?" 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  sighed  Horton,  with  a  laugh.  "I 
guessed  it." 

"But  you  must  have " 

236 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


"I  got  to  thinking — last  night.  The  whole  story  was 
a  lie — why  shouldn't  this  be  a  part  of  it?" 

"But  a  suspicion  wasn't  enough " 

"Enough  for  a  starter,  Monsieur.  You'll  admit,  it 
might  have  been  a  boy.  Just  because  you  always  thought 
the  child  was  a  girl,  'that  didn't  make  it  one.  I  lay 
awake.  Phrases  in  Quinlevin's  talk  in  the  studio  came 
back  to  me  and  I  began  to  think  about  the  name  'Patrice' 
— he  said,  'a  little  hard  to  read.  Patricia  it  is.'  Just 
phrases,  but  this  meant  something.  'Female,  me  boy.  A 

little  illegible '  "  Horton  turned  with  a  quick  gesture. 

''Why  should  the  name  Patricia  be  illegible  when  all  the 
rest  was  clear?" 

"But  you  said  nothing  of  this  to  me,"  muttered  the 
Due. 

"I  wasn't  sure.  1  sent  out  for  the  dictionary.  It  had  the 
Christian  names  in  the  back.  Patrice  was  Patrick. 
JThere  wasn't  any  Patricia.  You  French  have  a  way  of 
giving  males  and  females  the  same  names  anyway.  Made- 
leine— I  knew  a  Frenchman  in  America  with  Madeleine 
for  a  middle  name.  Aulnoy  might  be  anything " 

"A  family  name " 

"Yes.  Your  wife  wanted  your  family  name  in  it — but 
she  wanted  her  father's  name  too — Patrick — so  she  called 
the  boy  Patrice — we  can  prove  this  now,  I  think." 

"Assuredly,  Monsieur,"  said  de  Vautrin,  "you  are  a 
genius." 

"No.  I'm  only  a  good  guesser.  But  it  worked.  I 
got  the  poor  thing  rattled.  And  when  I  saw  Nora's  face 
I  knew  I'd  hit  with  the  second  barrel." 

Outside  it  was  getting  dark.  Horton  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  peered  out. 

"Monsieur  de  Vautrin,  there's  nothing  to  keep  you 
here  now,"  he  said.  "It  may  be  even  dangerous  to  remain. 
237 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

You  must  go  away  incognito  and  by  the  first  train. 
You've  been  very  careless  with  your  affairs.  Lay  your 
entire  case  in  the  hands  of  your  lawyer — telling  him  all 
that  has  happened  here  and  sending  to  Ireland  for  a  care- 
ful search  of  the  birth  records  of  the  parish  of  Ath- 
lone " 

"But  you,  Monsieur.    What  will  you  do?" 

"I  shall  stay  here  awhile.  There's  something  else  that 
I  must  do." 

"And  Piquette ?" 

"I  will  see  that  she  returns  safely." 

"You  are  very  good,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Due.  "Will 
you  forgive  me  for  my  suspicions?" 

"Yes.  If  you  will  promise  to  give  Piquette  the  affec- 
tion she  deserves.  She  is  a  child,  Monsieur,  with  great 
impulses — both  good  and  bad — what  she  becomes  will  de- 
pend upon  your  treatment  of  her.'* 

"She  has  saved  me  from  great  trouble,  bringing  you, 
my  savior " 

Horton  moved  into  the  bed  room  and  picked  up  his 
hat.  "Don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  he  said,  and  then 
offered  his  hand.  "Glad  to  have  met  you,  Monsieur.  Au 
revoir.  I  will  see  you  in  Paris  in  a  week.  But  don't  waste 
any  time  getting  out  of  here.  Allez — tout  de  suite,  you 
understand.  Paris  in  a  week,  Monsieur." 

And  with  a  quick  wave  of  his  hand  Horton  went  out 
and  walked  rapidly  down  the  corridor.  The  interview 
with  Quinlevin  had  served  a  double  purpose.  He  had 
succeeded  beyond  all  hope  in  finding  out  what  he  had 
wanted  to  know ;  and  he  had  so  occupied  the  Irishman's 
time  that  Piquette  could  proceed  unmolested  in  making 
an  investigation  of  her  own.  He  hurried  up  to  her  room 
to  meet  her,  as  agreed.  Watching  the  corridor,  he 
knocked  by  a  preconcerted  signal.  There  was  no  reply. 
238 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


After  a  moment  he  opened  the  door  and  entered.     The 
room  was  empty. 

*  *  *  * 

Piquette  was  fearless  but  she  was  also  clever.  It  was 
her  thought  that  Barry  Quinlevin  would  take  no  chances 
with  the  original  birth  certificate  and  other  papers  in  the 
apartment  of  Monsieur  de  Vautrin.  It  was  her  sugges- 
tion that  she  be  permitted  to  take  advantage  of  the  ab- 
sence of  Quinlevin  and  his  party  to  make  a  thorough 
search  of  the  rooms  for  any  private  papers.  And  in  this 
she  was  aided  and  abetted  by  Monsieur  Jacquot,  in  the 
office  of  the  hotel,  to  whom  she  explained  as  much  as  was 
necessary,  and  who  provided  the  keys  and  wished  her  luck 
in  her  undertaking. 

Jim  had  allowed  her  an  hour  for  the  investigation,  dur- 
ing which  period  he  had  promised  to  keep  Quinlevin  pris- 
oner. Here  then,  Piquette  reached  new  heights  of  self- 
abnegation,  for  in  helping  Jim  in  the  cause  of  Moira,  she 
worked  against  her  own  interests,  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Moira  Quinlevin.  Jim  had  opened  her  eyes  to 
her  obligations  to  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  but  she  had  done 
her  duty  merely  because  Jim  had  asked  it  of  her.  He 
had  kissed  her  as  though  she  were  a  queen.  She  could 
never  forget  that. 

But  in  spite  of  any  mental  reservations  she  may  have 
had  in  doing  something  in  the  interest  of  the  girl  Jim 
Horton  loved,  she  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  of  keen  inter- 
est in  the  task  that  she  had  set  herself.  And  Piquette 
went  about  her  investigation  methodically,  waiting  on  the 
steps  from  the  upper  landing  until  Quinlevin  and  the  two 
women  had  entered  the  room  of  the  Due,  when,  keys  in 
hand,  she  made  her  way  quickly  to  the  rooms  Quinlevin 
had  engaged.  There  were  three  of  them  en  suite,  with 
connecting  doors,  and  with  a  quick  glance  along  the  empty 
corridor  she  entered  the  nearest  one. 
239 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

An  ancient  valise,  and  a  flannel  wrapper,  proclaimed 
its  occupant — Nora.  There  might  be  something  of  in- 
terest here — but  it  was  doubtful,  for  Barry  Quinlevin  was 
hardly  a  man  to  leave  Nora  in  possession  of  any  docu- 
ments that  were  better  kept  in  his  own  hands.  But  Pi- 
quette  nevertheless  searched  carefully  and  for  her  trouble, 
found  nothing.  The  door  into  the  adjoining  room,  that 
of  Madame  Horton,  was  open,  showing  how  quickly  and 
easily  an  entente  had  been  re-established  between  Moira 
Quinlevin  and  her  old  nurse. 

At  the  threshold  of  this  room  Piquette  paused,  glanc- 
ing with  a  delicate  frown  at  the  articles  of  feminine  ap- 
parel on  bed  and  dressing  stand. 

"H — m,"  she  sniffed,  scenting  the  air  delicately,  her 
chin  raised.  "Violette!"  Then  she  approached  the  bed 
and  took  a  white  garment  and  rubbed  it  critically  be- 
tween thumb  and  forefinger.  "H-mph !"  said  Piquette 
again.  A  pair  of  stockings  next — a  small  slipper  whicH 
she  measured  with  her  own,  shrugged,  and  then  searched 
the  suit  case  and  dressing  table  thoroughly.  Of  paper 
there  was  nothing — not  even  a  post-card. 

The  door  into  Barry  Quinlevin's  room  was  bolted  on 
the  side  where  Piquette  stood.  She  went  back  through 
the  rooms  that  she  had  passed,  to  be  sure  that  nothing 
had  been  disarranged,  locked  the  outside  door  of  Nora 
Burke's  room  as  she  had  found  it,  and  then  went  back  to 
Quinlevin's  door  which  she  opened  quickly  and  peered 
around.  Here  there  was  a  field  for  more  careful  investiga- 
tion, a  suit-case,  a  dressing-stand,  a  bed,  some  chairs,  a 
closet — all  of  them  she  took  in  in  a  quick  inspection.  The 
suit-case  first — and  if  locked  she  meant  to  take  it  bodily 
away. 

It  wasn't  locked.  She  had  a  slight  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment. It  contained  a  change  of  under-linen,  some  collars, 
socks,  a  box  of  cigars,  and  a  bottle  of  Irish  whisky.  All 
240 


JIM  MAKES  A  GUESS 


of  these  she  scrutinized  with  care,  as  well  as  the  cloth 
lining  and  the  receptacles  in  the  lid,  and  then  arranging 
the  contents  as  she  had  found  them,  straightened  with  a 
short  breath,  and  looked  elsewhere.  No.  Monsieur  Quin- 
levin  would  have  hidden  such  important  papers  more 
cleverly  than  that.  Where  then?  In  a  place  so  obvious 
that  no  one  would  think  of  looking  there  for  them?  That 
was  an  ancient  trick  well  known  to  the  police.  But  after 
she  had  looked  around  the  room,  she  examined  the  bed 
minutely,  running  her  nimble  fingers  along  the  ticking 
of  the  mattress,  the  pillows,  dismantling  the  bed  com- 
pletely, and  then  satisfied  that  she  had  exhausted  this 
possibility,  remade  it  skillfully. 

Next,  the  dressing-stand,  inch  by  inch  inside  and  out, 
then  the  upholstery  of  the  chairs,  straightening  at  last, 
puzzled.  And  yet  she  knew  that  the  birth  certificate  must 
be  in  these  rooms  somewhere.  She  moved  the  rugs,  ex- 
amined the  ashes  in  the  fireplace,  the  base  board  and 
molding,  took  down  the  pictures  from  the  walls  and  then, 
baffled,  sank  into  the  arm  chair  for  a  moment  to  think. 
Could  Quinlevin  have  taken  the  precaution  to  leave  the 
documents  in  the  safe  at  the  Hotel  Ruhl  in  Nice,  or 
would  he  perhaps  have  deposited  them  downstairs  in  the 
strong-box  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris?  In  that  event  Mon- 
sieur her  friend  would  help.  .  .  . 

But  her  hour  had  not  yet  expired.  There  were  a  few 
moments  left.  Where  else  was  she  to  look?  She 
glanced  at  the  picture  molding,  the  walls,  the  electric 
light  brackets  by  the  bed  and  dressing-stand,  then  rose 
for  a  last  and  possibly  futile  and  despairing  effort.  She 
ran  her  sensitive  fingers  over  the  bracket  by  the  bed.  It 
was  affixed  to  the  wall  by  a  hexagonal  brass  plate  held 
by  a  small  screw.  She  tried  to  move  the  screw  with  her 
fingers  but  it  resisted,  so  she  ran  to  the  dressing-stand 
for  a  nail  file  and  in  a  moment  had  moved  the  brass  plate 
241 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

from  the  wall.  A  patch  of  broken  wall-paper  and  wires  in 
a  small  hole — but  no  papers. 

She  screwed  the  plate  carefully  into  place  and  turned  to 
the  jther  fixture  over  the  dressing-stand.  This  was  her 
last  venture,  but  she  had  determined  to  make  it,  and  felt 
a  slight  thrill  of  expectation  when  the  screw  of  the  first 
bracket  moved  easily  in  her  fingers.  She  loosened  the 
plate  and  as  it  came  out  from  the  surface  of  the  wall, 
there  was  a  sibilant  rustle  and  something  slipped  down 
behind  the  dressing-stand  to  the  floor.  Eager  now  with 
excitement,  she  thrust  her  fingers  behind  the  plate  and 
brought  forth  some  papers.  These  she  examined  quickly 
in  amazement,  then  carefully  screwed  the  bracket  into  its 
place,  recovering  the  other  paper  that  had  fallen  to  the 
floor — success !  The  papers  that  she  had  taken  from  be- 
hind the  bracket  she  could  not  understand,  but  the  paper 
that  she  had  recovered  from  the  floor  was  the  much  de- 
sired birth  certificate  of  the  dead  child.  The  light  was 
failing,  but  in  the  shadow  of  the  hangings  of  the  French 
window  she  stood  and  read  the  name  Patricia  Madeleine 
Aulnoy  de  Vautrin. 

She  was  filled  with  the  joy  of  her  success  and  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  perusal  of  the  paper  that  she  did  not  hear 
the  small  sounds  that  came  from  the  adjoining  room,  nor 
was  she  aware  of  the  tall  dark  figure  of  the  girl  with  the 
pale  face  who  for  a  long  moment  had  stood  in  the  door- 
way watching  her  in  silent  amazement.  And  it  was  not 
until  Moira  spoke  that  Piquette  turned,  the  papers  hid- 
den behind  her,  and  met  the  steady  gaze  of  the  woman 
Jim  Horton  loved. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  this  room?"  asked  Moira 
steadily. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
AT  BAY 

PIQUETTE   sent  one  fleeting  glance  at  her,  then 
stepped  out  upon  the  sill  of  the  French  window 
which   extended   to   the  floor*     When  she  turned 
toward  Moira,  a  little  pale  and  breathing  rapidly,  her 
hands  were  empty. 

"What  did  you  throw  out  of  the  window?  What  are 
you  doing  here?"  Moira  asked  again,  moving  quickly  to 
the  push-button  by  the  door.  "Answer  me  or  I'll  ring." 

Piquette  by  this  time  had  recovered  some  of  her  com- 
posure. "Oh,  Madame,  it  is  not  necessaire  to  ring,"  she 
said  easily.  "I  can  explain  myself  if  you  will  but  listen." 

"You  have  no  right  in  this  room — unless  you  are  a 
servant  of  the  hotel.  And  that  you  are  not " 

"No,  Madame,"  said  Piquette  coolly,  "I  am  no  servant 
of  de  hotel.  But  strange  to  say,  even  agains*  my  will, 
I  am  your  frien'." 

"My  friend!     Who  are  you?" 

Piquette  glanced  toward  the  door  into  the  hall  rather 
anxiously. 

"If  you  will  permit  me  to  come  into  your  room  I  will 
answer  you." 

Moira  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  indicated  the 
door  by  which  she  had  entered.  Piquette  preceded  her  into 
the  room,  as  Moira  stood  by  the  door,  still  uncertain  but 
curious  as  to  this  stranger  who  claimed  friendship. 
Piquette  indicated  the  door. 

"You  will  please  close  it,  Madame/'  she  urged  with  a 
smile.     "I  am  quite  'armless." 
243 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

And  Moira  obeyed,  catching  the  bolt  into  its  place 
and  turning  with  an  air  very  little  mollified. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded  shortly.     "Answer  me." 

Instead  of  replying  at  once  Piquette  sank  into  a  chair, 
crossed  one  knee  over  the  other  and  leaned  forward,  her 
chin  on  her  fingers,  staring  frankly  at  her  companion. 

"You  are  'andsome,  Madame  'Orton,"  she  murmured 
as  though  grudgingly.  "Ver'  'andsome." 

Moira  flushed  a  little  and  returned  the  other  woman's 
look,  a  sudden  suspicion  flashing  across  her  mind  that 
this  woman — this  was 

"Who  are  you?"  she  stammered. 

"I — I  am  Madame  Morin — and  I  am  called  Piquette," 
said  the  visitor  clearly. 

Moira  recoiled  a  pace,  her  back  as  flat  as  the  door  be- 
hind her. 

"You !     Piquette  Morin!    You'd  dare!" 

"Quietly,  Madame  'Orton,"  said  Piquette  gently,  "I 
'ave  tol'  you  I  am  your  frien'." 

"Go,  Madame,"  said  Moira  in  a  choking  voice  and 
pointing  to  the  door.  "Go." 

But  Piquette  did  not  move. 

"Ah!  You  do  not  believe  me.  It  is  de  trut'.  I  am 
your  frien'.  I  am  proving  it  by  coming  in  here — by  try- 
ing to  'elp  you  in  dis " 

"I  do  not  need  your  help,  Madame.    Will  you  go  ?" 

"Yes,  Madame  'Orton.  I  will  go  in  a  minute — when  I 
tell  you  de  risk  Jeem  'Orton  an'  I  'ave  run  to  keep  you 
from  making  of  yourself  a  fool." 

Moira  gasped  at  the  impudence. 

"What  I  am  does  not  matter,  but  what  you  and  Jim 
Horton  are,  does.  I  wish  to  hear  no  more " 

"Not  even  dat  Monsieur  Quinlevin  has  got  de  vilam 

Tricot,  to  shoot  at  us  in  de  train Piquette 

shrugged.  "Sapristi!  Madame  'Orton, — if  we  'ad  been 
244 


AT  BAY 


kill'  you  would  perhaps  t'ink  it  a  proof  of  friendship." 

She  had  caught  the  girl's  attention,  but  Moira  still 
demurred. 

"I  ask  no  favors  of  you,  Madame  Morin,"  she  said  halt- 
ingly. 

"No,  Madame  'Orton,"  said  Piquette  quietly,  "but  I 
'ave  give'  dem  freely,  for  you — for  heem.  Perhaps  you 
t'ink  dat  is  not'ing  for  me  to  do.  La,  la.  I  am  only 
human  after  all." 

So  was  Moira.  Piquette's  purposeful  ambiguity 
aroused  her  curiosity  and  she  turned  toward  the  French 
girl,  her  glance  passing  over  her  with  a  new  interest. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Madame,"  she  said  coldly. 

"I  did  not  'ope  dat  you  would.  But  it  is  not  so  difficile. 
I  try  to  'elp  Monsieur  Jeem  'Orton,  because  'e  'as  taught 
me  what  it  means  to  be  brave  an'  fait'ful  an'  honorable  to 
de  one  'e  love',  an'  because  you  are  blind,  an'  will  not  see." 

"Not  so  blind  that  I  have  not  seen  what  you  would 
have  hidden." 

"I  'ave  not'ing  to  hide  from  you,  Madame  'Orton.  I 
am  proud  of  de  frien'ship  of  Jeem  'Orton.  I  would  go  to 
de  en'  of  de  worl'  to  make  'im  'appy." 

"Friendship !"  gasped  Moira. 

"Or  love,  Madame,"  said  Piquttte  gently,  "call  it  what 
you  please." 

"And  you  dare  to  tell  me  this — you !" 

Piquette  only  smiled  faintly. 

"Yes,  I  love  'im."  And  then,  with  the  simplicity  of  a 
child,  "Don't  you,  Madame?" 

Moira  stared  at  her  for  a  second  as  though  she  hadn't 
heard  correct!}'. 

"No.    No.    This  is  too  much.    You  will  oblige  me " 

"You  wish  me  to  go?"  said  Piquette  with  a  shrug.    "In 
a  moment.     But  firs'  let  me  tell  you  dat  what  Monsieur 
Quinlevin  'as  tol'  you  about  us  is  a  He — all  lies." 
245 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  forget,  Madame,"  said  Moira,  "that  I  have  seen." 

Piquette  smiled. 

"Because  I  go  to  sleep  wit'  my  'ead  on  'is  shoulder.  An* 
what  is  dat?  For  shame,  Madame.  Jeem  'Orton  care' 
not'ing  for  me.  I  bring  'im  out  of  de  'ouse  in  de  Rue 
Charron — I  nurse  'im  in  my  apartment.  You  t'ink  'e 
make  love  to  me  whe"  'e  t'ink  of  you?" 

Piquette  laughed  scornfully. 

"What  kind  of  woman  are  you  to  see  de  love  in  de  eyes 
of  an  hones'  man  an'  not  remember  it,  for  de  greates' 
t'ing  dat  come'  in  a  woman's  life?  'Is  eyes!  Mon  Dieu, 
Madame.  I  know  de  eyes  of  men.  'E  on'y  love  once, 
Jeem  'Orton — an'  you  t'ink  'e  make  love  to  me.  I  would 
give  myself  to  'im,  but  what  Jeem  'Orton  give'  to  me  is 
much  more  sweet,  more  beautiful.  'E  kees  me  on  de 
brow,  Madame,  like  I  was  a  chil',  when  I  would  give  'im 
my  body."  Piquette  stopped,  and  then,  gently,  "A 
woman  like  me,  Madame,  can  on'y  worship  a  man  like 
dat." 

Moira  was  leaning  against  the  bed  rail,  her  head  bent, 
her  eyes  searching  out  Piquette's  very  soul. 

"And  you,  Madame,"  said  Piquette,  her  voice  gather- 
ing scorn  in  its  very  suppression.  "You,  Madame,  who 
love  'im  too,  you  listen  to  everyt'ing  'is  enemies  say 
agains'  'im — you  believe  dese  lies,  you  let  dem  try  to  keel 
'im,  you  'elp  dem  bring  you  to  deshonneur.  You  try  to 
keep  'im  from  saving  you  from  disgrace!  What  kind  of 
a  woman  are  you,  Madame,  to  'ave  a  love  like  dat  frown 
at  your  feet  an'  walk  away  an'  leave  it  like  a  dead  flower 
upon  de  groun'?  Mus'  it  take  a  woman  like  me  to  show 
you  what  is  fine  and  noble  in  de  worl'?  You  sen'  'im  away 
into  de  night.  Juste  ciel!  Is  dere  no  blood  in  your  heart, 
Madame,  no  tenderness,  no  pity,  for  de  love  of  a  man 
like  Jeem  'Orton?  Love!  You  do  not  know  what  love 

is,  you " 

246 


AT  BAY 


"Stop,  Madame!"  gasped  Moira,  her  lips  gray  and 
trembling  under  the  wrist  that  masked  her  eyes.  "You 
dare  not  tell  me  what  love  is.  You  don't  know — every- 
thing." 

"Yes,"  said  Piquette  quietly.  "I  know  everyt'ing.  But 
only  God  could  keep  me  from  de  man  I  love." 

"Yes,  God !"  whispered  Moira  tensely.    "Only  God." 

The  pallor  of  her  face,  the  agonized  clutch  of  her  white 
fingers  on  the  table  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  silenced 
Piquette,  and  she  glanced  up  at  Moira  partly  in  pity, 
partly  in  scorn.  Piquette's  education  had  not  fitted  her 
to  understand  the  motives  of  women  different  from  her- 
self, but  she  saw  in  Moira's  face  the  scars  of  a  great  pas- 
sion and  the  marks  of  suffering  not  to  be  denied.  And  so 
after  a  painful  moment  for  Moira,  she  turned  her  glance 
aside. 

"I  cannot  speak  of  this  to  you,  Madame,"  she  heard 
the  girl  stammer.  "You  have  no  right  to  judge  me  or 
to  question  my  motives.  And  if  I've  misjudged  you — or 
Jim  Horton,  God  knows  I'm  sorry  for  it.  But  you — 
Madame — why  should  you  come  and  tell  me  these  things?" 

Moira's  breath  seemed  suspended  while  she  waited  for 
the  woman's  answer.  Piquette  traced  for  a  moment  with 
her  finger  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"You  may  be  sure  it  'as  cos'  me  somet'ing,"  she  said 
slowly. 

"Does  he  know — does  Jim  Horton  know?" 

"No,  Madame.     He  knows  noding." 

"Then  why ?" 

"Because,"  said  Piquette,  rising  with  some  dignity,  "be- 
cause it  pleases  me,  Madame.  What  Jeem  'Orton  wish* 
— is  my  wish  too.  'E  love  you.  Eh  bien!  What  'e  is  to 
me  does  not  matter." 

Moira  stared  at  her  dully.    She  could  not  believe. 

"If  you  do  not  on'erstan'  me,  Madame,"  Piquette  con- 
247 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

tinued,  "it  is  because  you  do  not  wish  to  on'erstan',  be- 
cause all  de  sacrifice  'e  make  for  you  is  in  vain.  You 
listen  to  deir  lies,  become  a  partner  in  a  crime  to  get 
money  which  does  not  belong  to  you " 

"How  do  you  know  this?" 

"  'Arry  'Orton — your  'usband — toP  me  de  truf." 

"Harry!" 

"Yes,  Madame.     I  was  a  frien'  to  your  'usband. 

"You ?" 

The  glances  of  the  two  women  met,  held  each  other — 
read  each  other,  omitting  nothing.  It  was  Piquette  who 
looked  away.  If  self-abasement  was  to  be  the  measure 
of  her  sacrifice,  she  had  neglected  nothing. 

"An'  now,"  she  said  quietly,  "if  you  please,  I  shall  go 
away." 

"Not  yet,  Madame,"  said  Moira  gently.  "Not  until  I 
tell  you  that  I  know  what  you  have  done — that  I  believe 
what  you  have  said." 

"Thank  you." 

She  caught  Piquette  by  the  hand  and  held  her. 

"I  cannot  be  less  noble  than  you,  Madame.  Forgive 
me." 

"It  is  Jeem  'Orton  who  should  forgive." 

"I  have  done  him  a  great  wrong — and  you.  And  I  must 
do  him  another  great  wrong.  You  have  said  that  only 
God  could  keep  you  from  the  man  you  love.  God  has  kept 
me  from  Jim  Horton.  I  cannot  see  him  again." 

"But  you  cannot  stay  here,  Madame,"  put  in  Piquette 
earnestly. 

"No,  perhaps  not,"  wearily,  "but  you  have  taught  me 
something.  If  sacrifice  is  the  test  that  love  exacts,  like 
you,  I  can  bear  it " 

"An'  make  Jeem  'Orton  suffer  too !"  cried  Piquette 

wildly.      "What   for   you   t'ink   I   tell   you   dese   t'ings, 
Madame?     You  mus'  go  wit'  'im  to  Paris." 
248 


AT  BAY 


"No.     I  can't." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.     I  must  think.^ 

"You  will  do  what  'e  ask  of  you." 

"No." 

"You  mus'  see  'im." 

"No.     Don't  ask  me,  Madame " 

There  was  a  knock  upon  the  door  into  the  corridor — 
repeated  quickly.  The  two  women  exchanged  glances, 
Moira  bewildered,  Piquette  dismayed.  She  had  remained 
too  long. 

"Monsieur  Quinlevin !"  she  whispered. 

Moira,  a  finger  to  her  lips,  beckoned  her  toward  the 
door  into  Nora  Burke's  room,  when  there  was  another 
quick  knock  and  Quinlevin  entered  quickly,  followed  by 
another  figure. 

"Moira,  why  didn't  ye "  the  Irishman  began,  and 

then  his  glance  passed  to  Piquette.  "Ah — you  here, 
Madame,"  he  frowned  with  quick  suspicion,  glancing 
toward  the  door  into  his  own  room.  And  then  suddenly 
beckoned  his  follower  in.  It  was  Monsieur  Tricot,  bent, 
hobbling,  but  full  of  every  potentiality  for  evil. 

Quinlevin  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  him,  put- 
ting the  key  into  his  pocket,  and  then  with  a  muttered 
injunction  to  his  companion,  unbolted  and  opened  the 
door  into  his  own  room  and  disappeared.  Moira  had 
scarcely  time  to  note  the  villainous  look  the  apache  cast 
in  Piquette's  direction,  when  Quinlevin  came  striding  in 
like  a  demon  of  vengeance. 

"Ah,  Madame  Morin,"  he  snapped,  "it  seems  as  though 
I  were  just  in  time.  What  have  ye  done  with  the 
papers  ?" 

The  little  patches  of  color  upon  Piquette's  lips  and 
eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  darker  in  the  pallor  of 
her  face;  for  Tricot's  evil  face  nearby  was  leering  at 
249 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

her,  Tricot  whose  secrets  she  knew  and  whose  secrets  she 
had  betrayed.  She  was  horribly  frightened,  but  she  man- 
aged to  control  her  voice  as  she  replied  steadily. 

"What  papers,  Monsieur?  I  know  nothing  of  any 
papers." 

"The  papers  referring  to  the  de  Vautrin  case.  Your 
papers,  Moira,  yer  birth  certificate  and  the  letters 
which  went  with  it." 

Moira  stood  near  the  door  into  Nora's  room,  pale  but 
composed.  And  now  she  spoke  bravely. 

"Madame  Morin  has  not  left  this  room  since  she  came 
into  it.  I  know  nothing  of  any  papers." 

Piquette  smiled  inwardly.  Her  embassy  had  not  been 
entirely  without  success.  But  Quinlevin  glanced  quickly 
at  Moira,  suspicion  becoming  a  certainty. 

"Oh,  we'll  see  about  this."  And  striding  quickly  to 
Nora  Burke's  door  locked  it  securely.  And  then  to  Pi- 
quette. 

"Ye'll  please  accompany  me  into  my  room,  Madame 
Morin,"  he  said  dryly.  "Perhaps  Monsieur  Tricot  and  I 
can  find  a  way  to  unlock  yer  lips." 

Piquette  cast  an  appealing  glance  at  Moira. 

"You  will  let  Madame  Morin  go,"  pleaded  the  girl  to 
the  Irishman. 

"No !"  he  thundered.  "There  will  be  no  more  trickery 
here.  And  ye'll  stay  here  too — under  lock  and  key, 
until  yer  new  friend  speaks." 

The  two  women  were  helpless  and  they  knew  it.  Al- 
ready Tricot's  sharp  talons  had  closed  on  Piquette's 
shoulder,  but  with  an  effort  at  composure  she  shrugged 
him  off  and  entered  the  door  beside  which  Barry  Quinle- 
vin stood,  bowing  with  ironical  politeness.  Piquette 
caught  just  one  glimpse  of  Moira's  white  face  before  the 
door  closed  between  them.  Then  the  key  was  turned  in 
250 


AT  BAY 


the  lock,  the  other  key  also  and  she  sank  rather  help- 
lessly into  a  chair,  a  prisoner. 

"This  locking  of  doors  is  a  game  that  two  persons  may 
play  at,  Madame,"  said  Quinlcvin  easily,  in  French.  "Our 
friend,  the  deserter,  locks  me  in  with  Monsieur  de  Vau- 
trin  while  you  rifle  my  papers,  and  now  I  keep  you  priso- 
ner until  they  are  found.  Where  are  they,  Madame?" 

His  voice  was  soft,  but  even  in  the  dim  light  iridescent 
fires  played  forbiddingly  in  his  little  eyes. 

Piquette  was  silent,  her  glance  passing  about  the  ob- 
scurity as  though  in  search  of  a  resting  place.  She 
feared  Quinlevin,  but  more  than  him  she  feared  the  evil 
shape  just  beside  her  shoulder.  She  could  not  see  Tricot, 
but  she  felt  his  presence,  the  evil  leer  at  his  lips,  the  bent 
shoulders,  the  vulture-like  poise  of  his  head  and  the  ven- 
geance lust  burning  in  his  little  red  eyes.  For  whatever 
Monsieur  Quinlevin  owed  her,  here  she  knew  was  her  real 
enemy. 

"The  papers,  Madame,"  Quinlevin  repeated  more 
brusquely. 

Still  no  reply. 

"You  took  them  from  behind  the  bracket  yonder. 
What  did  you  do  with  them?" 

"They  are  gone,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Where?" 

"That  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

She  felt  the  claws  of  Tricot  close  upon  her  shoulder 
until  she  shrank  with  the  pain,  but  she  made  no  sound. 

"One  moment,  Tricot,"  said  the  Irishman,  "there  are 
first  other  ways  of  making  Madame  speak.  Release  her." 

Tricot  obeyed. 

"Of  course  Tricot  and  I  can  search  you." 

Piquette  laughed. 

"Search  me,  Monsieur.  It  is  your  privilege.  I  am  not 
squeamish." 

251 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

The  Irishman  frowned.  There  was  no  doubt  that  what 
he  had  propo"3d  had  no  terrors  for  a  life  model.  But 
there  were  other  means  at  his  disposal,  to  find  out  what 
he  wished  to  know. 

"I  should  have  remembered  your  metier,  Madame,"  he 
sneered.  And  then,  "Our  friend  Tricot  has  a  long  mem- 
ory. He  is  not  a  man  who  forgets.  If  you  will  look  at 
him  you  will  see  that  this  chance  meeting  is  much  to  his 
liking." 

Piquette  did  not  dare  to  look. 

"It  seems,"  the  Irishman  went  on,  "that  the  betrayal 
of  the  secrets  of  the  small  society  to  which  you  belong  is 
a  grave  offense." 

"I've  betrayed  no  secrets,"  said  Piquette,  finding  her 
voice.  "No  one  knows  of  the  affair  of  the  Rue  Char- 
ron " 

"Except  Monsieur  Horton,  who  will  tell  it  when  he  is 
less  busy " 

"No.  He  will  teD  nothing—" 

"Tricot  is  not  willing  to  take  that  chance.  Eh,  Tri- 
cot?" 

"No,"  snapped  the  vulture.  "Piquette  knows  the  pen- 
alty. She'll  pay  it." 

"And  if  I  pay  it,"  said  Piquette  bravely,  "you'll  know 
no  more  about  what  has  become  of  your  papers  than  you 
do  now." 

Quinlevin  made  a  sign  to  Tricot. 

"There's  something  in  that — but  I'm  in  no  mood  to  be 
trifled  with.  That  ought  to  be  pretty  clear." 

"It  is.     I'm  not  trifling." 

"Then  speak.    Or —      '    Quinlevin  paused  significantly. 

Piquette  continued  to  glance  around  the  room  as 
though  in  a  hope  that  something  might  happen  to  release 
her  from  her  predicament.  It  had  now  grown  dark  out- 
side, but  her  captors  showed  no  disposition  to  make  a 
252 


AT  BAY 


light.  And  yet  it  seemed  impossible  that  they  would 
dare  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  gain  time. 

"And  if  I  could  tell  you  what  has  happened  to  the 
papers,"  she  asked  uncertainly,  "will  you  let  me  go?" 

"Yes— speak." 

"And  if  I  cannot  tell  you " 

"I  will  tell  you,  Madame.  You  will  be  left  here  alone 
in  this  room  with  the  good  Tricot."  And  as  Piquette 
shrank  down  into  her  chair,  "He  is  a  very  ingenious  ras- 
cal, Tricot.  Never  yet  has  he  been  caught  by  the  police." 
Quinlevin  stopped  suddenly,  his  gaze  on  the  rectangle  of 
the  open  window,  as  though  listening.  "An  open  win- 
dow," he  mumbled.  "I  left  it  so — perhaps.  But  do  you 
go,  Tricot,  and  look  out.  Perhaps  there  is  some  one 
below." 

The  man  obeyed,  without  a  sound,  vanishing  outside 
the  window  upon  the  small  portico. 

"No  one  can  help  you,  Madame,"  Quinlevin  said  in  a 
threatening  whisper,  "for  at  my  word  Tricot  shall  be 
quick  and  silent."  He  caught  Piquette  furiously  by  the 
wrist  and  twisted  it.  "What  have  you  done  with  my 
property?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing." 

"You  are  lying." 

Tricot's  silhouette  appeared  at  the  window. 

"Monsieur,"  he  whispered  tensely,  "there's  a  man — • 
below." 

"Horton !"  said  Quinlevin.    "What  is  he  doing?" 

"Crawling  in  the  bushes,  Monsieur."  ( 

The  clutch  on  Piquette's  arm  grew  tighter. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  papers?" 

"I  burned  them  in  the  fireplace,"  she  said  desperately. 

Quinlevin  rushed  to  the  hearth  and  struck  a  match, 
253 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

examining   the   ashes    minutely.      Then   he   straightened 
quickly. 

"You  lie,  Madame.  I  burned  some  letters  here  this 
morning.  The  ashes  are  just  as  I  left  them."  In  one 
stride  he  was  at  her  side  again,  a  pisi:  u.  rn  his  hand. 

He  caught  her  roughly  by  the  arm  and  she  bit  her  lip 
to  keep  from  crying  out  with  pain. 

"He  is  down  there.  What  did  you  do  with  the  papers  ? 
Answer  me." 

"Let  me  go." 

"No." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"Unless  you  tell  me  the  truth — shoot  him  from  the 
window." 

"You  would  not  dare "  she  whispered,  in  spite  of 

her  pain,  "the  people  of  the  hotel — will  investigate.  The 
police " 

"Bah !  A  burglar  comes  along  the  portico,  I  shoot  him. 
He  falls — will  you  tell  the  truth?  Are  the  papers  in  this 
room?" 

"I  won't  tell." 

"Very  well."  And  then  turning  to  his  companion  at 
the  window,  "What  is  he  doing  now,  Tricot?" 

"He  does  not  move " 

The  Irishman  released  Piquette  suddenly. 

"A  better  chance  for  a  shot,  then,"  he  snapped.  "Here, 
Tricot."  And  he  moved  toward  the  window,  his  weapon 
eloquent. 

Piquette  sprang  up  despairingly. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried,  "for  the  love  of  God.  Don't 
shoot.  I  will  tell." 

"I  thought  so.    Where  are  they?    Quick." 

"I— I " 

He  had  her  by  the  wrists  now,  one  on  each  side,  and 
Tricot's  skinny  hand  threatened  her  throat. 
254 


AT  BAY 


"Speak !" 

"I — I  threw  them  out  of  the  window,"  she  gasped. 

It  was  evident  that  at  last  in  her  terror  she  had  spoken 
the  truth.  With  an  oath  Quinlevin  threw  her  aside  and 
ran  to  the  window  while  Tricot  twisted  her  arm  back  of 
her,  his  other  hand  at  her  throat. 

"Jeem !"  she  shrieked  in  a  last  despairing  effort.  "Go ! 
Go !"  And  then  the  fingers  of  the  apache  closed  and  the 
sound  was  stifled  as  she  fell  back  in  a  chair  helpless. 

"Shut  up,  damn  you,"  growled  Quinlevin.  "Keep  her 
quiet,  you.  Not  death,  you  understand.  We  may  need 
her." 

Piquette  heard  these  things  dimly.  A  torrent  was  roar- 
ing at  her  ears  and  her  eyeballs  seemed  to  be  starting 
from  her  head  as  she  fought  for  her  breath,  but  the  re- 
lentless fingers  pressed  at  her  windpipe. 

"And  you,  Monsieur?"  she  heard  Tricot  ask. 

"I'm  going  down — into  the  garden.  If  she  speaks  the 
truth  I'll  find  it  out. 

Dimly  she  heard  the  door  open  and  shut  and  the  key 
turned  in  the  lock,  while  she  fought  Tricot.  Bat  strong 
as  she  was,  she  knew  that  she  was  no  match  for  him.  His 
arms  were  like  steel  springs,  his  fingers  like  iron.  But 
still  she  fought,  trying  to  make  a  commotion  that  would 
arouse  the  hotel.  But  Tricot  had  pinioned  her  in  her 
chair  and  even  the  dim  light  that  came  in  at  the  open 
window  grew  black  before  her  eyes.  She  struggled  again 
at  the  very  verge  of  the  gate  of  oblivion  it  seemed,  chok- 
ing— choking,  when  a  pain  sharper  than  that  at  her 
throat  came  at  her  side. 

"Be  quiet,"  croaked  Tricot's  voice  at  her  ear — "or 
I'll »» 

And  she  obeyed.  For  death  was  in  his  voice  and  in 
his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  THE  DARK 

JIM  HORTON  looked  at  his  watch  again.  He  had 
kept  the  visitors  in  the  apartment  of  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin  more  than  an  hour.  He  hurried  cautiously 
down  the  stairs  toward  the  doors  of  the  rooms  occupied 
by  Quinlevin's  party.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  and  so 
he  stole  along  the  corridor,  listening.  Moira  and  Nora 
Burke  had  entered  their  rooms.  But  Piquette  would  of 
course  be  in  the  room  of  Quinlevin.  No  sound.  And  so 
he  waited  for  a  moment  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway,  hop- 
ing at  any  moment  to  see  Piquette  emerge,  reassured  at 
the  thought  that  the  Irishman  at  least  had  probably  not 
yet  come  up.  But  the  suspense  and  inaction  weighed 
upon  him,  and  at  last,  moving  quickly,  he  went  down  the 
back  stair  and  so  to  the  office,  where  he  sought  out  the 
friend  of  Piquette,  Monsieur  Jacquot.  But  to  his  dis- 
appointment he  found  that  the  man  had  gone  off  duty 
for  the  night  and  was  probably  in  Nice.  Quinlevin,  he 
discovered,  had  been  seen  leaving  the  hotel,  so  any  im- 
mediate danger  from  him  was  not  to  be  expected. 

Jim  Horton  was  plagued  with  uncertainty.  If  Piquette 
had  already  succeeded  in  her  mission,  he  couldn't  under- 
stand why  she  hadn't  returned  to  her  room.  Perhaps  he 
had  missed  her  on  the  way.  She  might  have  used  the  main 
stair-way,  though  under  the  circumstances  this  would  not 
have  been  probable.  During  the  day  he  had  managed  to 
take  a  surreptitious  survey  of  the  rear  of  the  hotel  where 
the  Quinlevin  suite  was  situated,  and  it  was  only  Pi- 
quette's  suggestion  to  keep  the  Irishman  busy  while  she 
256 


IN  THE  DARK 


searched  his  room  that  had  dissuaded  Horton  from  an 
attempt  to  reach  Quinlevin's  room  from  the  outside. 
There  was  a  small  portico  at  the  Irishman's  windows 
which,  it  seemed,  possibly  could  be  reached  by  climbing 
a  wooden  trellis  and  a  small  projecting  roof  of  an  out- 
building where  a  rain  spout  rose  alongside  a  shutter  which 
offered  a  good  hand  hold — something  of  a  venture  at 
night,  but  a  chance  if  everything  else  failed. 

He  was  sure  now  that  he  had  missed  Piquette  on  the 
way  and  if  she  had  been  successful  she  was  by  this  time 
safe  in  her  room  with  the  doors  securely  bolted  and  a 
push-button  at  hand  by  means  of  which,  if  molested,  she 
could  summon  the  servants  of  the  hotel.  And  Quinlevin 
would  hardly  dare  to  try  that,  because  an  investigation 
meant  the  police,  and  the  police  meant  publicity — a  thing 
to  be  dreaded  at  this  time  with  the  battle  going  against 
him.  Nor  did  Horton  wish  to  make  a  row,  for  Piquette 
was  a  burglar — nothing  less — and  discovery  meant  plac- 
ing her  in  an  awkward  position  which  would  take  some 
explaining.  Monsieur  Jacquot  would  have  been  a  help, 
but  there  was  no  hope  of  trying  to  use  him  to  intimidate 
Quinlevin  even  had  the  Frenchman  been  willing  to  take  a 
share  in  so  grave  a  responsibility. 

So  Jim  Horton  waited  for  awhile,  lurking  in  the  shad- 
ows of  a  small  corridor  near  the  office,  watching  the  en- 
trance of  the  hotel  for  the  Irishman's  return,  and  was 
just  about  to  go  out  of  the  rear  door  into  the  garden 
for  a  little  investigation  of  his  own  when  he  heard  the 
sounds  of  voices  near  the  office  and  saw  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin  dressed  for  travel,  talking  to  the  major-domo. 
Horton  paused  behind  a  column  to  watch  and  listen,  the 
Due's  flushed  face  and  gay  mien  proclaiming  the  triumph 
he  had  experienced  and,  while  he  had  packed  his  clothing, 
no  doubt  a  short  session  with  the  brandy-bottle.  This 
was  Monsieur  de  Vautrin's  incognito,  this  his  silent  de- 
257 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

parture  from  the  shades  of  his  beloved  Monte  Carlo. 
The  man  was  a  fatuous  dotard,  not  worth  the  pains  that 
had  been  wasted  upon  him.  His  account  paid,  Monsieur 
de  Vautrin  walked  toward  the  door,  where  an  automobile 
awaited  him,  but  as  he  was  about  to  get  into  the  machine 
a  tall  figure  emerged  from  the  darkness  and  stood  beside 
him.  A  passage  of  words  between  the  two  men  and  the 
Due  laughed. 

"A  great  game,  Monsieur  the  Irishman,"  Horton  heard 
him  say,  "but  you  have  lost.  In  a  week  I  shall  be  again 
in  Paris  in  the  hands  of  my  avocat.  And  then — beware !" 

Quinlevin  shrugged  and  de  Vautrin  got  into  the  ma- 
chine which  dashed  off  into  the  darkness,  leaving  the  Irish- 
man standing  uncertainly  upon  the  step.  It  was  not  until 
then  that  Horton  noticed  that  he  had  a  companion,  for 
at  that  moment  two  figures  emerged  into  the  light  and 
Horton  knew  that  Quinlevin's  forces  had  been  augmented 
by  one.  For  Monsieur  Tricot  had  arrived. 

The  two  men  came  in  hurriedly,  as  though  having 
reached  a  decision,  and  went  up  the  stairs. 

"There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  if  Piquette  has  suc- 
ceeded," muttered  Horton  to  himself.  And  then  in  a 
quick  afterthought,  "And  maybe  a  worse  devil — if  she 
hasn't." 

He  waited  until  they  had  gone  beyond  the  landing  and 
then  hurried  to  the  rear  stairway  and  up  the  two  flights 
to  the  door  of  Piquette's  room — aghast  at  his  discovery. 
She  was  not  there,  nor  had  she  been  there,  for  he  struck  a 
match  and  found  itstcondition  precisely  that  in  which  he 
had  left  it  half  an  hour  before.  He  waited  for  a  few 
moments,  then  turned  the  corner  of  the  corridor  and 
went  quickly  toward  Quinlevin's  door,  waiting  for  a  mo- 
ment and  listening  intently.  He  made  out  the  murmur 
of  voices,  a  man's  and  a  woman's,  but  he  could  not  hear 
it  distinctly.  But  that  the  man's  voice  was  the  Irishman's 
258 


IN  THE  DARK 


he  did  not  doubt,  nor  that  the  woman's  was  Piquette's. 
Cautiously  he  turned  the  knob  of  the  door.  It  was  locked. 
Quinlcvin  evidently  expected  him.  There  was  no  chance 
of  ingress  here  unless  Quinlevin  permitted  it.  The  Irish- 
man had  the  law  on  his  side.  If  Horton  persisted,  Quin- 
levin could  shoot  him  (which  was  what  he  wished  to  do), 
with  every  prospect  of  acquittal  in  any  trouble  that 
might  follow. 

Horton  waited  here  only  a  moment  and  then  ran 
quickly  down  the  stairs,  past  ?ome  guests  on  their  way 
to  the  Casino,  and  out  intj  \,ae  garden.  At  this  hour 
of  the  night  it  was  dark,  for  the  dining  rooms  were  upon 
the  other  side  and  the  smoking  and  billiard  rooms  were 
deserted.  Glancing  toward  the  well-lighted  promenade 
just  beyond  the  hedge,  he  stole  along  the  walls  of  the 
hotel  beneath  the  windows  of  the  first  floor,  using  the 
deeper  shadows,  until  he  reached  a  palm  tree,  from  the 
shelter  of  which  he  carefully  scrutinized  the  fa9ade  of  the 
building,  identifying  the  windows  and  portico  of  the  room 
of  Quinlevin.  Then  went  nearer,  to  a  clump  of  bushes, 
beneath  the  portico,  where  he  crouched  to  listen  for  any 
sounds  that  might  come  from  abcve.  Silence,  except  for 
the  distant  murmuring  of  the  surf  among  the  rocks  below 
the  Casino. 

He  tried  to  believe  that  the  voice  he  had  heard  through 
the  door  upstairs  was  not  Piquette's — that  it  might  have 
been  Mcira's  or  Nora  Burke's.  But  if  it  was  not  Pi- 
quette's voice,  then  where  was  she?  And  why  had  she 
stayed  so  long,  venturing  Quinlevin's  wrath  at  her  in- 
trusion? There  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  that  she  had 
overstayed  the  allotted  time  and  that  now  they  had  come 
in  upon  her — the  Irishman  and  the  rascal  Tricot.  She 
was  in  for  a  bad  half  hour — perhaps  something  worse. 

But  Horton  reassured  himself  with  the  thought  that 
Quinlevin  desired  to  keep  the  tale  of  his  hazard  of  new 
259 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

fortune  a  secret.  They  would  not  dare  to  do  physical 
harm  to  Piquette  in  a  hotel,  which  had  its  name  for 
respectability.  They  would  not  dare  to  risk  her  outcries, 
which,  if  damaging  to  herself,  would  be  doubly  damaging 
to  Barry  Quinlevin.  So  Horton  crouched  in  the  center 
of  his  hiding  place  and  uncertainly  waited,  sure  that  if 
she  was  in  danger  his  place  was  now  beside  Piquette,  who 
had  played  a  game  with  death  for  him  in  the  house  in  the 
Rue  Charron.  He  glanced  up  at  the  trellis  just  beside 
him,  planning  the  ascent.  And  as  he  did  so  he  noticed  a 
small  object  hanging  among  the  twigs  just  above  his 
head.  It  was  within  reach  of  his  hand  and  he  took  it — 
a  letter  or  a  slip  of  paper  somewhat  rumpled.  He  fin- 
gered and  then  looked  at  it,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see. 
Near  him  upon  the  turf  was  another  square  of  paper — 
and  a  letter  further  off,  another,  and  another  hanging  in 
the  opposite  side  of  the  bush. 

In  his  hands  idly  he  fingered  the  letter.  The  paper 
was  fine  and  it  bore  an  embossed  heading  or  crest.  He  was 
about  to  throw  it  aside  when  he  looked  up  the  wall  of 
the  building  at  the  portico  outside  Barry  Quinlevin's 
windows — realizing  with  a  sudden  sense  of  his  discovery 
that  these  papers  had  fallen  from  the  windows  of  the 
second  floor  or  those  of  the  third — Quinlevin's.  Of  course 
they  were  unimportant — and  yet.  .  .  .  He  started  to 
his  feet  and  looked  around.  Elsewhere,  so  far  as  he  could 
see,  the  garden  was  scrupulously  neat,  the  pride  of  a 
gardener  who  was  well  paid  to  keep  up  the  traditions  of 
this  fairyland.  Horton  bent  over  searching  and  found 
another  paper,  even  more  rumpled  than  the  others.  He 
glanced  up  at  the  windows  on  the  third  floor.  There  was 
no  sign  of  occupancy,  for  though  one  of  the  windows  was 
open,  both  were  still  dark,  but  he  waited  a  moment  listen- 
ing and  fancied  that  he  heard  the  low  murmur  of  voices, 
260 


IN  THE  DARK 


then  a  dull  glow  as  though  some  one  had  made  a  light  for 
a  cigarette. 

But  the  papers  in  his  fingers !  He  realized  with  a 
growing  excitement  that  they  were  quite  dry  to  the  touch 
and  had  not  therefore  been  long  exposed  to  the  damp  sea 
air.  Had  Piquette  .  .  .  ?  Not  daring  to  strike  a 
light  he  turned  and  crept  quickly  back  to  the  light  of 
the  hall  way.  And  here,  behind  the  door,  he  read  the 
papers  quickly.  Their  meaning  flashed  through  his  con- 
sciousness with  a  shock — a  letter  from  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin,  a  receipt  for  money,  and  the  crumpled  paper  a 
square  printed  document  bearing  the  now  familiar  name  of 
Patricia  Madeleine  Aulnoy  de  Vautrin — the  birth  certifi- 
cate upon  which  all  Barry  Quinlevin's  fortunes  hung — 
and  Moira's. 

He  could  not  take  time  to  investigate  the  characters  of 
the  handwriting,  for  the  light  was  dim.  And  the  real 
significance  of  his  discovery  was  not  to  be  denied.  No  one 
but  Piquette  would  have  thrown  such  papers  out  of  the 
window  into  the  garden,  nor  would  she  have  done  so 
desperate  a  thing  unless  she  had  found  herself  at  bay  with 
no  other  means  of  disposing  of  them.  He  reasoned  this 
out  for  himself  while  he  thrust  the  documents  safely  into 
an  inner  pocket  and  crept  quickly  back  to  his  place 
beneath  the  windows,  searching  as  he  went  upon  the 
ground  for  any  other  papers  that  might  have  escaped  him. 
There  was  no  time  to  spare.  Piquette  was  up  there.  He 
was  sure  of  it  now.  Otherwise  why  hadn't  she  escaped  and 
run  down  to  recover  the  documents  before  Quinlevin's 
return  with  Tricot?  But  why  had  she  thrown  them  from 
the  window  unless  their  presence  threatened?  These  and 
other  speculations  were  to  remain  unanswered,  for  if 
Piquette  were  in  that  room  alone  with  the  two  men  her 
danger  jvas  great. 

There  was  a  slight  sound  from  above.  He  peered  up- 
261 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

ward.  In  silhouette  against  the  sky  was  the  figure  of  a 
man — he  couldn't  tell  whether  Tricot  or  the  Irishman. 
It  was  to  be  a  desperate  game  then.  They  had  just 
guessed  what  Piqjette  had  done  with  the  birth  certificate 
and  there  seemed  not  the  slightest  hope  that  the  man  on 
the  portico  could  have  failed  to  see  his  figure  below  th? 
thin  screen  of  winter  foliage.  Desperate !  Yes,  but  worth 
it — for  Piquette.  He  owed  it  to  her.  And,  as  in  moments 
of  great  danger,  he  found  himself  suddenly  cold  with 
purpose  and  thinking  with  extraordinary  lucidity.  Quin- 
levin  would  not  dare  to  shoot  him  out  of  hand  without  a 
cause,  but  to  catch  a  man  climbing  the  wall  of  his  hotel 
into  the  window  of  his  room, — that  would  be  a  sufficient 
reason  for  an  obvious  act  of  self-defense.  And  yet  had 
Quinlevin  considered  the  possibility  of  Horton's  attempt- 
ing so  dangerous  a  climb?  If  not,  the  element  of  surprise 
might  be  in  Jim  Horton's  favor. 

But  there  was  to  be  no  choice  for  Horton — for  as  he 
stood,  measuring  the  height  of  the  trellis,  from  the  window 
above  he  heard  a  stifled  voice  crying  his  name.  "Jeem!" 
it  called,  "Go!  Go!" 

He  ran  to  the  trellis  and  climbed  it  easily,  putting  his 
revolver  in  an  outer  pocket  as  he  reached  the  friendly  roof 
of  the  little  outbuilding,  crouching  behind  a  projection 
of  the  wing  and  gazing  upwaru  for  a  further  sight  of 
Monsieur  Tricot.  He  thought  he  heard  sounds  now,  the 
creaking  of  furniture  and  the  growl  of  a  masculine  voice. 
Other  sounds,  more  terrible,  more  significant.  .  .  . 
They  were  choking  her.  .  .  .  D them !  Cowards ! 

Scorning  further  secrecy,  he  measured  with  his  eye  the 
distance  he  would  have  to  spring  for  a  hand  hold  on  the 
window-sill  of  the  window  above  him,  the  water-pipe,  his 
main  hope,  upon  investigation  proving  unreliable.  The 
window  sill  which  was  his  objective  was  at  least  two  feet 
above  his  outstretched  arms  and  to  the  left,  beyond  the 
262 


IN  THE  DARK 


edge  of  the  projection  on  which  he  stood.  It  was  not 
above  him  and  he  would  have  to  leap  sideways  from  the 
roof,  risking  a  drop  of  at  least  twenty  feet  to  the  menac- 
ing stone  flagging  of  a  path  which  led  to  the  kitchen 
entrance.  But  he  leaped  upward  and  out  into  the  dark, 
his  fingers  clutching,  swinging  for  a  second  above  vacancy, 
and  then  hauled  himself  up  until  he  got  a  hand  hold  on 
the  hinge  of  the  open  shutter;  then  a  knee  on  the  sill, 
pushing  the  French  window  which  yielded  to  his  touch. 
He  hoped  the  room  was  unoccupied,  but  had  no  time  to 
consider  that  possibility;  straightening  and  climbing  the 
shutter.  Quinlevin's  portico  was  within  his  reach  now. 
He  waited  cautiously  for  a  second,  listening  and  peering 
upward.  No  sign  of  any  one  outside,  but  the  sounds 
within.  ,  .  .  He  heard  them  again  now — fainter,  hor- 
ribly suppressed.  He  caught  the  edge  of  the  portico  and 
swung  himself  up,  close  to  the  wall  of  the  building,  and 
in  a  moment  had  gained  a  safe  foot-hold  within  the  railing. 
There  was  no  light  within  the  room  and  now  no  sound. 
Had  they  ...  In  the  brief  moment  he  paused,  gasping 
for  his  breath,  he  was  aware  of  a  figure  below  moving 
cautiously  along  the.outskirts  of  the  garden.  He  crouched 
below  the  balustrade  instinctively.  It  was  just  at  this 
moment  that  the  cautious  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man 
emerged  from  the  French  window  to  peer  over.  It  was 
Tricot.  Like  a  cat,  Horton  sprang  for  him,  and  the  im- 
pact of  the  shock  sent  them  both  sprawling,  half  in, 
half  out  of  the  room.  Neither  made  a  sound,  each  aware 
of  the  hazard  of  his  situation.  Horton  struck  and  struck 
again,  felt  the  sharp  scratch  of  Monsieur  Tricot's  knife 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  caught  the  wrist  of  the  hand  that 
held  it,  twisting,  twisting  until  the  weapon  dropped,  clat- 
tering, just  within  the  door  of  the  room.  But  the  French- 
man was  strong  and  struggled  upward,  kicking,  biting, 
until  Horton  with  his  right  arm  free  struck  him  under 
263 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

the  jaw.  That  took  some  of  the  fight  out  of  him,  but  he 
still  fought  gamely,  while  Horton,  whose  blood  was  hot 
now,  wondered  why  Quinlevin  hadn't  joined  in  the  enter- 
tainment. Tricot  in  desperation  tried  to  reach  for  an- 
other weapon  with  the  arm  Horton  hadn't  pinioned,  and 
it  was  about  time  to  end  the  matter.  A  memory  of  the 
night  in  the  Rue  Charron  was  behind  Horton's  blow  which 
struck  Monsieur  Tricot  neatly  behind  the  ear  and  sent 
him  sprawling  out  on  the  portico,  where  his  head  came 
into  contact  with  the  cement  balustrade,  and  he  fell  and 
lay  silent. 

Horton  took  no  chances,  kicking  the  knife,  a  cruel,  two- 
edged  affair,  into  the  fireplace  and  appropriating  Mon- 
sieur Tricot's  revolver,  which  he  put  into  the  other  pocket 
of  his  coat,  then  turned  to  look  for  Quinlevin. 

He  didn't  find  him,  but  Piquette  was  there,  prone  in 
the  arm  chair,  and  gasping  horribly  for  her  breath. 

"Piquette!     It's  Jim,"  he  whispered. 

Her  swollen  tongue  refused  her,  but  her  fingers  clutched 
his  hand. 

"They  choked  you,  Piquette." 

"Tri — cot,"  she  managed  to  utter  painfully. 

"I've  attended  to  him.     Where's  Quinlevin?" 

She  pointed,  soundless,  toward  the  door. 

"He  went  down  to  look  for  me?"  he  questioned. 

She  nodded. 

"Good,"  laughed  Jim.  "We'll  be  ready  when  he  comes 
back." 

He  went  out  and  had  another  look  at  Tricot.  The 
man  was  out  of  it  and  there  was  a  dark  shadow  on  the 
stone  work  where  he  had  fallen.  So  Horton  came  back 
into  the  room,  found  a  pitcher  of  water,  with  which  he 
bathed  Piquette's  forehead  and  throat  and  then  gave 
her  to  drink.  And  in  a  moment  she  was  able  to  enunciate 
more  clearly.  But  she  was  very  weak  and  it  seemed  that 
264 


IN  THE  DARK 


her  nerve  was  gone,  for  her  shoulders  shook  with  hysteria 
and  she  clung  to  Horton  still  in  terror  of  her  frightful 
experience.  But  Horton  was  taking  no  chances  now  and 
did  the  thinking  and  talking  for  them  both. 

"You're  sure  Quinlevin  went  down  to  look  for  me?" 
he  asked  again. 

"Yes,  m-mon  ami.  Tricot, — 'e  saw  you  below — in — de 
— de  garden." 

"He  knows  you  threw  out  the  papers  ?" 

"Yes.     Into  de  garden." 

"Not  now,"  said  Horton.     "In  my  pocket." 

"You  found  dem?" 

"Yes." 

"Dieu  merci!    It's  what  I— I  'ope'." 

"But  we  mustn't  lose  them  again  now,  Piquette,  after 
all  this.  Is  the  door  locked?" 

"I — I  doan  know.  I " 

Horton  strode  to  the  door  and  turned  the  key. 

"Now  let  him  come,"  he  whispered  grimly.  And  then, 
"Where's  Moira?"  he  asked. 

"Lock'  in  'er  room — yonder." 

"You  saw  her?" 

"Yes,  mon  Jeem." 

"But  she  must  have  heard  all  this  commotion." 

"I  doan  know." 

"Um."  He  paused  a  moment,  glanced  at  the  door  into 
the  corridor,  and  then  crossed  quickly  to  the  door 
Piquette  indicated,  knocking  softly.  There  was  no  reply. 

"Moira!"  he  said  through  the  key-hole.  "It's  I—- 
Jim." 

He  seemed  to  hear  sounds  within,  a  gasp,  a  movement 
of  feet  and  then  silence. 

"Moira — it's  Jim."  There  was  no  sound,  so  he  unbolted 
the  door  and  turned  the  knob.  It  was  locked  on  the 
inside. 

265 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

A  gasp  from  Piquette,  who  had  been  listening  for 
sounds  at  the  other  door,  now  warned  him  to  be  quiet 
and  he  straightened.  There  were  footsteps  outside  and 
then  a  knock. 

"Tricot  !"  said  the  Irishman's  voice.     "Let  me  in." 

"Quickly!"  whispered  Horton,  into  Piquette's  ear,  "in 
the  chair  and  gasp  like  hell." 

She  understood  and  obeyed  him.  Horton  went  to  the 
<3oor,  turned  the  key  and  Barry  Quinlevin  strode  in. 

"He's  gone,  Tricot — the  papers  too " 

So  was  Quinlevin:  the  door  closed  behind  him  and  a 
wiry  arm  went  around  his  throat  from  behind,  a  knee  in 
the  middle  of  his  back,  and  he  crumpled  .backward  in 
Horton's  strong  arms,  down  to  the  loor,  where  in  spite  of 
his  struggles  Horton  held  him  powerless,  quickly  disarm- 
ing him,  his  weight  on  the  astonished  Irishman's  chest, 
his  fingers  at  the  man's  throat,  gently  pressing  with  a 
threat  of  greater  power  at  the  slightest  sound.  The 
achievement  was  ridiculously  easy  as  all  important  things 
are,  given  some  intelligence  and  a  will  to  do. 

Mr.  Quinlevin  at  this  point  had  come  to  realize  that  the 
purely  psychological  stage  of  his  venture  had  passed  into 
the  realm  of  the  physical,  in  which  he  was  no  match  for 
this  young  Hercules  who  had  so  easily  mastered  him. 
And  Tricot  .  .  .  ?  Outside  upon  the  balcony  was  a 
shadow  that  had  not  been  there  before.  The  game  was 
up.  And  so  he  resorted  to  diplomacy,  which  was  indeed 
the  only  thing  left  to  him. 

"Well,  Horton,"  he  uttered,  "ye've  won." 

"Not  yet,  Quinlevin,"  said  Horton  grimly.  And  then 
to  Piquette,  who  had  stopped  gasping  and  already  showed 
a  lively  interest  in  the  proceedings,  "The  sheets  from  the 
bed,  Piquette,  if  you  please." 

She  obeyed  and  helped  him  while  they  swathed  their 
prisoner  from  head  to  foot,  binding  and  gagging  him  with 
266 


IN  THE  DARK 


his  own  cravats  and  other  articles  of  apparel  which  they 
found  adaptable  to  the  purpose  and  then  between  them 
lifted  him  to  the  bed  where  he  lay  a  helpless  clod  of 
outraged  dignity*  Then  they  turned  their  attention  to 
Monsieur  Tricot,  who,  as  they  dragged  him  by  the  heels 
into  the  room,  already  showed  signs  of  returning  con- 
sciousness, binding  him  first,  reviving  him  afterward.  Of 
the  two  Tricot  was  now  the  least  quiescent,  but  he  under- 
stood the  touch  of  Horton's  revolver  at  his  temple,  and 
in  a  moment  lay  like  Quinlevin,  writhing  in  his  bonds  but 
quite  as  helpless. 

"And  now,  Quinlevin,"  said  Horton  coolly,  "it  must  be 
fairly  obvious  to  you  that  the  fraud  you've  practiced  at 
the  expense  of  Madame  Horton  is  now  at  an  end.  The 
documents  upon  which  you  rely  are  in  my  pocket,  where 
they  will  remain  until  they  are  turned  over  to  Monsieur  de 
Vautrin.  In  the  morning  you  and  your  brave  companion 
will  doubtless  be  released  by  the  servants  of  the  hotel,  by 
which  time  I  hope  to  be  in  another  part  of  France !" 

He  stopped  with  a  shrug  at  the  sound  of  Piquet  te's 
voice. 

"We  mus'  not  stay  too  long,  Jeem  'Orton*  Some  one 
may  come." 

"Madame  Horton?"  he  muttered,  and  went  over  to  the 
door  of  Moira's  room  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound. 
"Moira,"  he  said  again  distinctly  through  the  keyhole. 
"Will  you  unbolt  the  door?" 

A  small  sound  of  footsteps  moving,  but  they  did  not 
come  toward  the  door. 

"Moira,"  he  repeated  more  loudly.  "You  must  let  me 
in.  We  are  going  away  from  here — at  once.*' 

No  reply. 

"It  is  as  I  suppose',  Jeem  'Orton,"  whispered  Piquette 
at  his  ear.  "She  does  not  wish  to  come." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 
267 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"I  saw  her,  Jeem,"  she  whispered.  "I  talk  wit'  'er.  It 
is  'opeless.  I  do  not  t'ink  she  will  come.  She  is  afraid." 

"Afraid — of  me?"  he  muttered  incredulously.    "I " 

"Not  of  you,  mon  vieiuc,"  returned  Piquette..  "Of 
•erself!" 

"I  don't  understand " 

Piquette  shrugged.     "Try  again  den,  Jeem  'Orton." 

He  did — to  no  avail.  There  was  now  no  sound  from 
within  in  reply  to  his  more  earnest  entreaties. 

"Something  must  have  happened  to  her,"  he  mumbled 
Straightening,  with  a  glance  toward  the  bed.  "If  I 
thought " 

"But  no,"  Piquette  broke  in  quickly.  "Not'ing  'as 
'appen'  to  'er,  mon  Jeem.  She  is  quite  safe." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that " 

And  putting  his  weight  against  the  door,  he  tried  to 
force  it  in.  It  yielded  a  trifle,  but  the  slender  bolt  held. 
He  waited  a  moment,  listening  again,  silencing  Piquette's 
whispered  protestations  at  the  commotion  he  was  creating, 
but  heard  nothing.  Then  moving  away  a  few  paces  he 
pushed  the  door  with  his  full  weight  and  it  flew  open  with 
a  crash,  almost  throwing  him  to  the  floor. 

The  room  was  empty,  but  the  unlocked  door  leading 
into  Nora  Burke's  room  showed  which  way  she  had  gone. 
He  went  in  and  looked  around.  Then  out  into  the  corri- 
dor by  Nora's  door.  There  were  some  people  at  the  other 
end  of  the  corridor  but  Moira  and  her  Irish  nurse  had 
disappeared. 

Uncertainly,  he  came  back  through  the  rooms  to 
Piquette,  who  stood  in  Moira's  room,  watching  the  pris- 
oners through  the  doorway. 

"It  is  what  I  'ave  said,  mon  Jeem.  Madame  does  not 
wish  to  go  wit'  you." 

"But  why ?  After  all " 

"  'Ave  I  not  tol'  you?  She  is  afraid  of  'erself.  She 
268 


IN  THE  DARK 


knows  as  I  know — she  is  a  woman  who  loves — but  not  as 
I  love,  mon  Jeem.  It  is  'er  God  dat  stan'  between  you, 
'er  God — stronger  dan  you  and  what  you  are  to  'er.  She 
is  afraid.  She  knows — if  she  touch  your  'and — she  will 
go  wit*  you — whatever  'appens." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  muttered  Horton,  be- 
wildered. 

"She  to?  me  so " 

"You?" 

"I  saw  'er — talk  wit'  'er.  Dat  is  why  I  wait  too  long 
ontil  Monsieur  Quinlevin  came." 

Horton  paused,  thinking  deeply. 

"I  must  find  her,  Piquette.  She's  got  to  go  with  us," 
he  murmured,  starting  toward  the  door  away  from  her. 

But  Piquette  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"No,  Jeem.  You  mus'n't.  Do  you  t'ink  you  can  fin' 
'er?  Where?  An'  if  you  do,  your  friend  Monsieur 
Quinlevin  will  be  discover'  and  dey  will  put  you  in  de 
jail " 

"Let  them.  I've  got  to  take  her  away.  She's  helpless, 
Piquette,  with  him — penniless,  if  she  deserts  him." 

"Not  so  'elpless  as  you  t'ink.  But  she  does  not  want 
to  see  you.  Is  not  dat  enough?" 

"No,"  he  said,  trying  to  shake  loose  her  clutch  on  his 
arm.  "I'll  find  her." 

"Jeem,"  Piquette  pleaded  desperately.  "You  will 
spoil  all  de  good  you  do.  What  does  it  matter  if  you 
fin'  'er  or  not  if  you  lose  de  paper  to  Quinlevin  again? 
You  mus'  go  away  now  before  it  is  too  late  an'  make 
Quinlevin  powerless  to  'urt  'er  again.  Den,  mon  Jeem, 
when  'er  future  is  safe,  you  s'all  fin'  *en  What  does  it 
matter  now?  In  time  she  will  come  to  you.  I  know.  You 
s'all  fin'  'er.  An'  I,  Piquette,  will  'elp  you." 

She  felt  his  arm  relax  and  knew  that  she  had  won. 
He  stared  for  a  long  moment  toward  the  open  door  into 
269 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Nora's  room,  then  turned  with  a  quick  gasp  of  decision. 

"You're  right,  Piquette.  We've  got  to  get  away — to 
draw  his  claws  for  good." 

"Parfaitement!  You  need  not  worry.  'E  will  not  'urt 
'er  now." 

And  so  they  returned  to  the  Irishman's  room  and  looked 
carefully  to  the  bonds  of  the  prisoners.  Nothing  was 
disarranged.  They  had  done  their  work  well,  and  con- 
tinued it  by  methodically  making  all  arrangements  for 
departure ;  shutting  the  French  window,  putting  an  extra 
turn  on  the  bindings  of  the  prostrate  men,  who  glared  at 
them  sullenly  in  the  obscurity.  Then  they  went  out,  lock- 
ing all  three  rooms  from  the  outside  and  leaving  the  keys 
in  the  doors.  Unobserved,  they  went  up  to  their  rooms — • 
packed  their  belongings,  descended  to  the  office  where  Jim 
coolly  paid  their  bills,  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

There  was  a  garage  nearby,  where  they  hired  a  car, 
paying  for  it  in  advance,  and  in  less  than  twenty  minutes, 
Jim  Horton  driving,  were  on  their  way  to  Vingtimille,  on 
the  border  line  between  France  and  Italy.  There  they 
left  the  machine  in  the  care  of  a  hotel  and  wrote  a,  post- 
card to  the  owner  of  the  garage  at  Monte  Carlo,  telling 
him  where  he  would  find  his  machine.  This  message  they 
knew  would  not  reach  him  until  some  time  the  next  day, 
by  which  time  they  would  be  lost  in  Italy. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FREEDOM 

MEANWHILE,  Destiny  was  at  her  loom,  weaving 
with  careless  hand.  The  American  and  French 
armies  were  moving  closer  to  the  Rhine,  but  the 
Infantry  regiment  to  which  Harry  Horton  belonged  lay 
at  Chateau  Dix  awaiting  orders.  There  Harry  went 
upon  the  morning  following  the  return  of  Barry  Quin- 
levin  from  Ireland.  Upon  his  breast  he  wore  the  Crow: 
de  Guerre,  but  in  his  soul  was  a  deathly  sickness,  the 
inward  reflection  of  the  physical  discomfort  with  which 
he  had  awakened.  The  prospect  that  lay  before  him  was 
not  to  his  liking.  The  period  during  which  he  had  been 
out  of  uniform,  the  weeks  of  secrecy,  of  self-indulgence 
and  abasement,  had  marked  him  for  their  own,  and  un- 
fitted him  for  the  rigorous  routine  of  discipline  that 
awaited  him.  And  so  he  faced  the  ordeal  with  a  positive 
distaste  for  his  old  associations,  aware  of  a  sinking  feeling 
in  his  breast  that  was  not  entirely  the  result  of  his  heavy 
potations  while  in  Paris. 

He  felt  the  burden  of  his  failure  and  a  terror  that  he 
would  not  b(  able  to  live  up  to  the  record  Jim  Horton  had 
made  for  him.  There  would  be  no  more  fighting  perhaps, 
but  always  beside  him  there  would  stalk  the  specter  of 
his  military  sin,  of  which  the  medal  at  his  breast  was  to 
be  the  perpetual  reminder.  On  the  train  down  from 
Paris,  the  medal  and  its  colorful  bit  of  green  and  red 

seemed  to  fill  the  whole  range  of  his  vision.     D the 

thing !    He  tore  it  off  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  then, 

somewhat  relieved,  sank  back  into  his  seat  and  tried  to 

271 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

doze.  But  his  nerves  were  most  uncertain.  Every  sound, 
even  the  smallest,  seemed  to  beat  with  an  unpleasant 
staccato,  upon  his  ear  drums.  And  he  started  up  and 
gazed  out  of  the  window,  trying  to  soothe  himself  with 
tobacco.  That  helped.  But  he  knew  that  what  he  wanted 
was  stronger  drugging — whisky  or  brandy — needed  it 
indeed  to  exorcise  the  demons  that  inhabited  him.  And 
the  thought  of  the  difficulties  that  would  lie  in  the  way 
of  getting  what  he  craved,  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  the 
long  days  and  nights  that  were  to  follow  still  further 
unmanned  him. 

Before  Moira  had  left  for  Nice,  he  had  given  her  his 
promise  to  report  for  duty  fit  and  sober,  and  he  had  put 
his  will  to  the  task,  aware  that  the  first  impression  he 
created  with  his  Colonel  was  to  be  important.  It 
was  for  this  reason  that  he  did  not  dare  to  open  his  valise 
and  touch  the  bottles  hidden  there  because  he  knew  that 
one  drink  would  not  be  enough  to  sooth  either  his  nerves 
or  the  dull  pangs  of  his  weary  conscience.  That  he  had 
a  conscience,  he  had  discovered  in  the  house  in  the  Rue 
Charron  when  the  desire  of  Monsieur  Tricot  and  Le  Singe 
to  put  Jim  Horton  out  of  the  way  for  good  had  brought 
him  face  to  face  with  the  evil  image  of  himself.  He  hated 
his  brother  Jim  as  much  as  ever,  because  he  was  all  the 
things  that  Harry  was  not,  but  the  plans  of  Quinlevin 
which  seemed  to  stop  at  nothing,  not  even  Moira  herself, 
now  filled  him  with  dread  ani  repugnance.  Kis  nerve  was 
gone — that  was  it.  His  nerve — his  nerve.  .  .  . 

But  arrival  at  regimental  headquarters  restored  him 
for  awhile.  His  Colonel  gave  him  a  soldierly  welcome, 
fingered  with  some  envy  the  Crolx  de  Guerre,  which  Harry 
had  pinned  on  his  breast  again  before  leaving  the  railroad, 
and  summoned  Harry's  Major,  whose  greeting  left 
nothing  to  be  desired.  And  for  the  moment  it  almost 
seemed  to  Harry  as  though  he  might  be  able  to  "put  it 
272 


FREEDOM 


over."  But  the  next  day  was  difficult.  He  managed  a 
drink  early  and  that  kept  him  going  for  awhile ;  but  they 
gave  him  his  company  in  the  morning,  and  from  that 
moment  the  intimate  contact  with  those  who  had  known 
him  began — a  lieutenant  he  had  never  liked,  a  sergeant 
who  was  a  psychologist,  and  a  familiar  face  here  and 
there  associated  unpleasantly  with  the  long  weary  days 
of  training  and  preparation  until  the  regiment  had  been 
worked  up  into  the  advanced  position.  But  his  long  sick- 
ness in  the  hospital  and  his  unfamiliarity  with  recent  or- 
ders served  him  well  for  excuse,  and  the  Croix  de  Guerre 
upon  his  breast  served  him  better.  A  corporal  and  a 
sergeant  with  whom  in  the  old  days  he  had  had  nothing 
in  common,  each  of  whom  wore  decorations,  came  up  to 
him,  saluting,  and  reported  that  it  was  they  who  had 
carried  him  back  to  the  dressing  station  from  the  rocks  at 
Boissiere  Wood.  He  shook  them  by  the  hands  with  a 
cordiality  which  did  not  disguise  from  himself  the  new 
terror,  and  when  they  attempted  a  recital  of  the  events 
of  the  great  fight  in  which  they  had  shared,  he  blundered 
helplessly  for  a  while  and  then  cut  the  interview  short, 
pleading  urgent  affairs. 

Then,  too,  there  was  the  nasty  business  of  the  wounds. 
He  hadn't  any.  He  was  scathless.  He  had  tried  the  ruse 
of  the  adhesive  tape  on  Moira  with  disastrous  effect. 
Here  the  result  of  the  discovery  of  his  unblemished  skin 
would  prove  still  more  disastrous.  And  so  at  once  he 
discouraged  familiarity,  kept  to  his  billet  and  attempted 
with  all  the  courage  left  to  him  to  put  through  his  daily 
round  with  all  credit  to  his  new  office.  But  it  irked  him 
horribly.  His  supply  of  strong  drink  did  not  last  long, 
and  the  thin  red  wines,  the  only  substitute  procurable, 
were  merely  a  source  of  irritation. 

And  there  were  others  in  his  company  of  whose  appro- 
bation he  was  not  at  all  certain.  There  was  the  sergeant, 
273 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

who  had  had  the  platoon  that  had  been  caught  with  his 
own  in  the  wheat-field.  There  were  four  or  five  men  of 
'one  of  his  own  squads  who  had  been  close  beside  him  in 
the  same  wheat-field  when  he  had  been  taken  ill  and  they 
had  left  him  face  to  face  with  the  grinning  head  of  the 
hated  Levinski.  And  there  was  the  !ate  Levinski's  own 
"buddy,"  Weyl,  who  had  sometimes  shared  in  Harry's 
reprobation.  Weyl  annoyed  him  most  perhaps,  with  his 
staring,  fishy  eye  and  his  Hebraic  nose,  so  similar  to  that 
of  his  lamented  tent-mate.  Weyl  had  been  in  the  wheat- 
field  and  his  heavy  face  seemed  to  conceal  a  malevolent 
omniscience.  The  large  staring  eyes  followed  the  new 
Captain  of  infantry,  inquisitive,  accusing  and  contemptu- 
ous. Whenever  Corporal  Weyl  came  within  the  range  of 
Harry's  vision,  their  glances  seemed  at  once  to  meet  and 
hold  each  other  and  it  was  the  Captain  who  always  looked 
away.  Weyl's  fishy  eye  fascinated  and  haunted  him.  He 
saw  it  by  day,  dreamed  of  it  by  night,  and  he  cursed  the 
man  in  his  heart  with  a  fury  that  did  nothing  for  his 
composure. 

One  day  as  Harry  was  making  his  way  to  mess,  he 
came  upon  Corporal  Weyl  standing  at  ease  just  outside 
his  billet.  The  man's  eye  seemed  more  round,  more  fishy, 
and  his  demeanor  more  contemptuous  than  ever.  The  last 
of  the  whisky  was  gone.  Harry  Horton's  heart  was 
behaving  queerly  within  him,  and  muscles  with  which  he 
was  unfamiliar  announced  their  existence  in  strange 
twitchings.  The  breakfast  coffee  would  help.  In  the 
meanwhile — he  glared  at  Corporal  Weyl,  his  fists  clenched. 

"What  the  H — — •  do  you  mean  by  staring  at  me  all 
the  time?"  he  asked. 

Weyl  came  to  attention  and  saluted  in  excellent  form. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir.     I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"Why  the  H do  you  stare  at  me?" 

"I  didn't  know  that  I  did  stare,  sir." 
274 


FREEDOM 


"Yes,  you  did.     Cut  it  out.     It  annoys  me." 

But  Corporal  Weyl  still  stared  as  the  regulations 
demand,  looking  his  Captain  squarely  in  the  eye.  And  the 
Captain's  gaze  wavered  and  fell. 

"When  I'm  about,"  he  ordered,  "you  look  some  other 
way.  Understand  ?" 

"Yes  sir.  I  understand,"  said  Weyl,  saluting  again  as 
Harry  turned  away,  but  still  staring  at  him.  And  Harry 
felt  the  fishy  stare,  more  than  ever  omniscient,  more  than 
ever  contemptuous,  in  the  middle  of  his  back,  all  the  way 
down  the  road  to  mess.  But  he  had  just  enough  of  self 
control  to  refrain  from  looking  around  at  the  object  of 
his  fury. 

And  at  mess  a  disagreeable  surprise  awaited  him,  in  the 
person  of  a  medico  who  had  just  joined  the  outfit.  The 
new  Captain  had  barely  finished  his  coffee  when  he  found 
himself  addressed  by  the  officer,  a  Major,  who  sat  just 
opposite  him  at  table. 

"How  are  you,  Captain  Horton?"  asked  the  man 
cordially,  extending  a  hand  across.  "Didn't  recognize 
you  at  first.  How's  the  head?" 

Harry  stammered  something. 

"I'm  Welby — looked  after  you  clown  at  Neuilly,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Harry.  "Of  course.  Glad  to  see  you 
again,  Major." 

"Things  were  a  bit  hazy  down  there,  eh?" 

"Yes,  rather,"  said  Harry. 

"Delicate  operation  that.  Touch  and  go  for  awhile. 
But  you  came  through  all  O.  K.  Delusions.  Thought  you 
were  another  man — or  something " 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Harry  faintly,  "but  I'm  all  right." 

"Glad  to  hear  it.     How's  the  head?" 

"Fine." 

"No  more  pains — no  delusions?" 
275 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"No  sir." 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  squint  at  the  wound  presently,  if 
you  don't  mind.  Interesting  case.  Very." 

Harry  rose  suddenly,  his  face  the  color  of  ashes. 

"Sorry,  sir,"  he  muttered,  "I've  got  a  lot  to  do  now. 
Later  perhaps,"  and  then  without  a  word  took  up  his 
cap  and  fled  incontinently  from  the  room. 

There  were  but  two  other  officers  present,  but  they 
stared  at  him  as  he  went  out,  for  the  conversation  across 
the  table  had  drawn  attention. 

"H-m,"  remarked  the  Major  into  his  coffee-cup.  "Surly 
chap  that.  Considering  I  saved  his  life — Croix  de  Guerre, 
I  see."' 

"Yes  sir,"  said  a  Lieutenant.  "Just  joined  up. 
Worried,  maybe." 

"Not  much  worried  about  me,  apparently,"  said  the 
Major. 

Harry  went  straight  out  to  his  billet,  locked  the  door 
of  his  room  and  sank  on  the  edge  of  his  bed.  The  situa- 
tion was  horrible.  This  man  of  all  men  who  had  seen  Jim 
Horton  through  the  hospital!  Suppose  out  of  profes- 
sional curiosity  the  fool  came  nosing  around !  Was  Welby 
now  with  the  regiment?  Harry  cursed  himself  for  the 
hurry  of  his  departure.  Would  the  man  suspect  any- 
thing? Hardly.  But  Harry  couldn't  take  a  chance  like 
that  again.  A  second  refusal  of  the  Major's  request 
would  surely  make  him  an  object  of  suspicion.  And  the 
wound  in  the  shoulder — there  was  none !  D — n  them  all ! 
Why  couldn't  they  leave  him  alone? 

He  couldn't  face  the  thing  out.  It  was  too  dangerous. 
Already  he  had  had  enough  of  it.  And  yet  what  was 
he  to  do?  Yesterday  he  had  thought  he  read  suspicion  of 
him  in  other  men's  eyes.  They  seemed  to  strip  him  naked, 
those  hundreds  of  eyes,  to  be  gazing  at  the  white  uninjured 
flesh  where  his  wounds  should  have  been.  All  this  in  a 
276 


FREEDOM 


week  only — and  what  was  to  happen  in  the  many  weeks 
to  follow?  If  this  fool  Welby  had  come  why  wouldn't 
there  be  other  men  of  the  regiment,  of  the  battalion,  who 
had  been  at  the  hospital  at  Neuilly  also?  They  would 
catch  him  in  a  false  statement,  force  him  into  a  position 
from  which  he  could  not  extricate'himself,  and  then  what? 
The  Major, — the  Colonel, — what  answer  could  he  give 
them  if  they  asked  to  see  his  wounds? 

To  Harry's  overwrought  imagination  the  whole  army 
seemed  joined  in  a  conspiracy  to  bring  about  his  ruin.  To 
go  about  his  work  seemed  impossible,  but  to  feign  illness 
meant  the  visit  of  a  doctor,  perhaps  Welby  himself.  He 
would  have  to  go  on,  at  least  for  the  day,  and  then  per- 
haps he  would  think  up  something — resignation,  a  trans- 
fer to  some  other  unit.  .  .  . 

He  managed  to  put  through  the  day,  still  wondering 
why  men  looked  at  him  so  strangely.  Was  there  anything 
the  matter  with  his  appearance?  In  the  afternoon,  the 
youngest  of  his  Lieutenants  approached  him  kindly. 

"Hadn't  you  better  take  a  run  down  to  the  hospital, 
sir?"  he  asked.  "You  look  all  in." 

Harry  stared  at  him  stupidly  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right — just — er — a  little  stomach  upset 

The  youngster  saluted  and  disappeared  and  Harry 
went  back  to  his  quarters.  There  was  no  wonder  that 
he  looked  "all  in."  He  hadn't  dared  to  go  to  the  mess 
table  since  morning  and  he  hadn't  had  a  drink  since 
yesterday.  Tobacco  had  ceased  to  have  the  desired  effect 
upon  his  nerves.  He  felt  like  jumping  out  of  his  skin. 
The  thing  couldn't  go  on.  He  was  "all  in."  A  short  leave 
of  absence  which  might  give  him  time  to  pull  himself 
together  meant  being  gone  over  by  a  doctor — it  meant 
showing  his  scarless  shoulder — impossible!  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  do — to  quit  while  there  was  time— 
277 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

before  the  truth  came  out.  The  more  he  thought  of  his 
situation,  the  more  clearly  this  course  seemed  indicated. 
To  disappear  silently — in  the  night.  It  could  be  managed 
— and  when  he  didn't  come  back,  perhaps  they  would  think 
that  the  wound  in  his  head  was  troubling  him  again,  and 
that  he  was  not  responsible  for  what  he  did.  Or  that  he 
had  met  with  foul  play.  They  could  think  anything  they 
chose  so  long  as  they  didn't  guess  the  truth.  And  they 
could  never  learn  the  truth,  unless  they  examined  his  body 
for  the  wounds. 

But  they  would  never  find  him  to  do  that  if  he  ever  got 
safely  back  of  the  lines.  He  had  managed  it  before.  He 
could  do  it  again  now;  because  he  wouldn't  have  to  trust 
to  blind  luck  as  he  had  done  back  of  Boissiere  Wood.  The 
more  he  thought  of  his  plan,  the  more  he  became  obsessed 
with  it.  At  any  rate  it  was  an  obsession  which  would 
banish  the  other  obsession  of  the  watching  eyes.  It  was 
the  dark  he  craved,  the  security  and  blessed  immunity  of 
darkness — darkness  and  solitude.  He  wouldn't  wait  for 
the  ordeal  of  the  morrow  .  .  .  to-night ! 

And  so,  driven  by  all  the  enemies  of  his  tortured  mind, 
and  planning  with  all  the  craft  of  a  guilty  conscience,  he 
arranged  all  things  to  suit  his  purpose,  passing  beyond 
the  village  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  visiting  a  friend  in 
another  unit  and  then  losing  himself  in  the  thicket. 

He  traveled  afoot  all  night,  using  his  map  and  making 
for  the  railroad  at  St.  Couvreur,  and  in  the  early  morning 
breakfasted  at  a  farmhouse,  telling  a  story  of  having  lost 
his  way  and  craving  a  bed  for  a  few  hours'  sleep.  He 
was  well  provided  with  money  and  his  host  was  hospitable. 
He  slept  a  while,  awoke  and  no  one  being  about,  searched 
the  house  for  what  he  sought.  He  found  it  in  a  wardrobe 
upstairs — a  suit  of  clothing  which  would  serve — and  leav- 
ing some  money  on  a  table,  made  off  without  ceremony  into 
the  thicket,  covering  a  mile  or  so  in  a  hurry,  across 
278 


FREEDOM 


country,  when  he  found  a  disused  building  in  which  he 
tore  off  his  uniform  and  donned  the  borrowed  clothing, 
leaving  his  own,  including  its  Croix  de  Guerre,  under  a 
truss  of  straw. 

It  grew  dark  again.  But  he  did  not  care.  In  a  village 
he  managed  by  paying  well  to  find  a  bottle  of  cognac. 
His  cares  slipped  from  him.  Nothing  mattered — not 
even  the  rain.  His  soul  was  set  free.  He  paid  for  a  good 
lodging  and  slept,  warm  inside  and  out;  purchased  the 
next  day  a  better  suit  of  clothing  and  then  boldly  boarded 
a  train  for  Paris. 

It  was  extraordinary  how  easily  his  liberty  had  been 
accomplished.  They  would  look  for  him,  of  course.  The 
M.  P.  would  bustle  about  but  he  had  given  them  the  slip 
all  right  and  they  would  never  find  him  in  Paris.  Paris 
for  awhile  and  then  a  new  land  where  no  questions  would 
be  asked.  Curiously  enough  the  only  human  being  he 
seemed  to  think  about,  to  regret,  in  what  he  had  done, 
was  Moira.  His  thoughts  continually  reverted  to  the 
expression  on  her  face  the  night  that  Jim  had  surprised 
them  in  the  studio.  Its  agony,  its  apprehension,  so 
nearly  depicted  the  very  terrors  that  had  been  in  his  own 
soul.  He  remembered  hazily  too,  that  she  had  been  kind 
to  him  when  Quinlevin  had  left  him  there  to  watch  her 
and  he  had  finished  the  bottle  of  Irish  whisky.  Then, 
too,  again  in  the  morning  she  had  awakened  him  and 
started  him  upon  his  way  back  to  his  post,  while  the 
expression  of  her  face  had  shown  that  she  was  trying  to 
do  her  duty  to  him  even  when  her  own  heart  was  breaking. 
She  had  had  a  thought  that  even  at  this  last  moment  he 
still  had  an  opportunity  to  "make  good."  He  felt  that 
Moira,  his  wife  in  name  only,  would  know  the  pain  of 
his  failure.  Quinlevin  would  sneer,  Jim  would  shrug,  but 
Moira  would  weep  and  pray — in  vain. 

He  had  cared  for  Moira  in  his  strange  selfish  way, 
279 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

permitted  Quinlevin  to  use  him  for  his  own  purposes, 
hoping  for  the  fortune  that  would  bring  ease  and  luxury 
for  them  all,  and  with  it  a  glamour  that  he  might  turn 
to  his  own  account  and  win  the  girl  to  a  fulfillment  of  their 
marriage  vows.  But  Jim  had  dashed  the  cup  from  his  lips, 
Jim — his  hero  brother — now  like  himself  an  outcast!  So 
there  were  to  be  two  of  them  then  after  all.  "It  served 
him  right- — D — n  him!"  Harry  Horton  found  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  the  situation.  If  he  wasn't  to  have  her,  Jim 
shouldn't  either.  He  wasn't  going  to  give  his  brother 
the  pleasure  of  reading  his  death  notice  in  the  morning 
paper.  He,  Harry  Horton,  would  just  go  on  living 
whatever  happened,  and  he  knew  that  without  the  evidence 
of  his  death,  Moira  would  never  marry  again. 

He  had  gathered  in  a  cloudy  way  the  general  meaning 
of  the  visit  to  the  Due  de  Vautrin  at  Nice  and  had  won- 
dered at  Moira's  consent  to  go  with  Quinlevin  on  such  a 
mission  after  what  she  must  have  heard  that  night.  But 
he  had  been  in  no  humor  to  ask  questions  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  knew  nothing  whatever  as  to  the  prospects  of 
succesc  for  the  undertaking.  It  looked  very  much  as 
though  with  Jim  Horton  in  on  the  game,  the  mission  was 
dubious.  And  yet  Quinlevin  might  succeed.  If  he  did 
there  would  be  enough  money  to  stake  Harry  in  a  new 
life  in  some  distant  part  of  the  world.  This  was  the 
price  that  they  would  pay  for  immunity — and  Harry 
would  go.  He  knew  now  Tiat  Moira  was  not  for  him. 
She  had  settled  that  matter  definitely  the  night  when  he 
had  come  in  drunk  from  the  Rue  Charron. 

He  reached  Paris  and  lost  himself  in  Montmartre, 
avoiding  the  old  haunts.  There  he  found  new  acquaint- 
ances and  many  bottles  to  soothe  the  awakening  pangs. 
Many  bottles  .  .  .  moments  of  lucidity  »  »  .  how  long 
would  it  be  before  Moira  and  Quinlevin  returned  to 
the  Rue  de  T avenues?  He  would  have  to  sober  up. 
280 


FREEDOM 


Things  weren't  bad  at  all  now.  What  difference  did  it 
make  to  any  one  but  himself  what  he  did  or  what  he 
became?  It  was  his  own  life  to  do  what  he  pleased  with. 
And  it  pleased  him  to  do  what  he  was  doing  with  it.  He 
laughed  at  the  amusing  inversion.  Good  joke,  that! 

But  he  would  have  to  go  down  to  the  studio  in  the 
Rue  de  Tavennes  and  talk  things  over.  No  use  quarrel- 
ing with  Quinlevin.  Everything  amiable  and  friendly. 
No.  7  Rue  de  Tavennes.  If  Moira  wasn't  there,  he'd  go 
in  and  wait.  Her  studio  ...  his  too.  Perhaps  a  little 
of  the  Irish  whisky  and  a  dozes  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  PETIT  BLEU 

(TTT^HE  road  to  Paris  was  long  by  the  way  Jim  Horton 
and  Piquette  had  chosen,  but  without  mishap  they 
came  through  Geneva  and  Lyons,  reaching  their 
destination  at  the  end  of  the  second  day.  Of  the 
further  adventures  of  Monsieur  Barry  Quinlevin  and  his 
apostle  Tricot  they  had  learned  nothing,  though  they 
had  scanned  all  the  newspapers  upon  their  way  for  any 
echoes  of  the  adventure  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  Jim 
Horton  had  spoken  little  of  Moira,  but  as  they  neared 
their  journey's  end,  the  birth  certificate  and  other  papers 
still  secure  in  Jim's  inner  pocket,  he  was  sure  that  however 
difficult  and  painful  his  decision  to  desert  Moira  at  the 
critical  moment,  Piquette's  counsel  had  been  wise.  Moira 
had  fled  from  him  and  he  knew  now  that  her  convictions 
had  laid  a  barrier  between  them  which  no  further  effort 
that  he  could  make  would  ever  pass.  Pity  he  felt  for  her, 
deep  and  abiding,  for  she  was  so  helpless  and  now  more 
than  ever  alone.  But  he  had  done  his  duty  as  he  had 
seen  it,  drawn  Quinlevin's  sting  and  opened  Moira's  eyes 
to  his  perfidy,  throwing  a  light  along  the  path  into  which 
that  perfidy  was  leading  her. 

He  and  Piquette  had  tried  to  picture  events  in  the  hotel 
at  Monte  Carlo  after  their  flight:  The  helpless  men 
lying  in  the  dark,  awaiting  the  morning,  Moira's  probable 
return  with  Nora  Burke  and  their  liberation.  As  to  what 
Moira  would  do  after  that,  they  could  not  decide.  Her 
flight  to  Paris  without  money  seemed  impossible,  and  yet 
for  her  to  remain  with  her  spurious  father  after  this 
282 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


awakening  seemed  also  impossible.  Piquette  had  related 
to  him  parts  of  her  conversation  with  the  girl  and  Horton 
had  listened,  aware  of  Piquette's  motives  and  the  hopeless 
impediments  to  the  success  of  her  efforts. 

Piquette  spoke  no  more  of  love,  nor  did  Jim  Horton 
revive  the  topic  which  had  given  him  a  more  awkward 
half  an  hour  than  he  had  ever  spent  in  his  life,  but  he 
showed  her  by  every  act  a  consideration  that  touched  her 
deeply  and  made  the  friendship  that  she  asked  of  him  a 
sacred  thing  to  them  both.  What  the  future  held  for 
him  was  yet  to  be  fully  revealed,  but  as  yet  he  could  not 
see  it  clearly.  With  the  collapse  of  Quinlevin's  scheme 
it  was  probable  that  all  the  vials  of  his  wrath  would  be 
turned  upon  Horton,  who  would  be  denounced  to  the 
military  authorities,  no  matter  what  happened  to  his 
unfortunate  brother  Harry.  It  was  necessary  therefore, 
until  the  birth  certificate  and  the  evidence  of  Horton 
and  Piquette  was  all  placed  with  Monsieur  de  Vautrin's 
legal  representative,  that  Horton  remain  hidden  and  that 
Piquette  avoid  all  contact  with  her  friends  of  the  Quartier. 
It  seemed  also  the  part  of  prudence  for  Piquette  to  remain 
for  awhile  away  from  her  apartment,  keeping  in  touch 
with  her  maid  who  would  bring  her  clothing  and  letters  to 
a  designated  place. 

"It  would  have  been  much  more  sensible  to  have  killed 
Tricot,"  laughed  Horton  when  they  were  established  in 
rooms  in  his  obscure  lodging  in  the  Rue  Jean  Paul.  "He'll 
come  poking  about  with  a  brand  new  knife  and  revolver, 
and  then  we'll  have  the  devil  to  pay  all  over  again." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Piquette. 

"We'll  take  no  chances.  And  when  this  business  is 
finished,  if  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  doesn't  do  his  duty  by 
you  I'd  like  to  take  you  away  from  Paris,  Piquette." 

"Where,  mon  Jeem?" 

He  shrugged.     "To  America.    Where  else?" 
283 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

But  she  shook  her  head  like  a  solemn  child. 

"No,  mon  petit.  You  will  not  wish  to  be  taking  me  to 
America.  One  cannot  change  one's  destiny  like  dat.  You 
s'all  not  'ang  me  like  a  millstone  aroun'  your  neck.  My 
place  is  'ere,  in  Paris,  where  I  am  born,  an'  if  de  bon  Dieu 
will,  where  I  s'all  die.  As  for  you,  mon  ami,  all  will  be 
well.  De  vrai  gamine  is  born  wit'  de  what  you  call — secon* 
sight.  It  is  I,  Piquette,  who  say  dis  to  you." 

He  glanced  at  her  curiously,  aware  of  an  air  of  fatal- 
ism in  her  words  and  manner. 

"How,  Piquette?"  he  laughed. 

She  shrugged.  "I  doan  know,  but  I  believe  you  s'all  be 
'appy  yet." 

"With  her,  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "Not  a  chance, 
Piquette.  That's  done.  But  if  I  can  help  her " 

"Yes,    You  s'all  'elp  'er,  mon  ami.    I  know." 

He  smiled  gently,  and  then  thoughtfully  lighted  a  pipe. 

"You've  got  Cassandra  beaten  by  a  mile,  my  little 
Piquette." 

"Cassandra?" 

"The  greatest  little  guesser  in  all  history.  But  she 
guessed  right " 

"An'  I  guess  right  too,  mon  ami.    You  see." 

He  smiled.  "Then  I  wish  you'd  guess  what's  happened 
to  your  silly  friend  de  Vautrin." 

"Silly !"  she  laughed.  "Dat's  a  good  word,  mon  ami," 
and  then  shrugged.  "  'E  will  come  one  day " 

"In  a  week — and  here  we  sit  cooling  our  heels  with  our 
evidence  all  O.  K.,  burning  in  our  fingers.  If  he  doesn't 
arrive  to-morrow  I'm  going  to  find  his  avocat" 

They  had  examined  the  birth  certificate  with  a  magnify- 
ing glass  and  there  was  not  a  doubt  that  the  final  "a"  of 
"Patricia"  had  been  added  to  "Patrice,"  also  that  the 
word  "male"  had  been  changed  to  "female"  by  the  addi- 
284 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


tion  of  the  prefix.  With  Nora  Burke  as  Quinlevin's  only 
witness  and  Horton  and  Piquette  to  oppose  her,  there 
would  not  be  the  slightest  difficulty  in  disposing  of  Barry 
Quinlevin's  pretensions.  But  Horton  still  worried  much 
about  the  fate  of  Moii'a,  for  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 
conceive  of  her  resumption  of  the  old  relations  with  the 
Irishman.  And  yet  it  could  not  be  long  before  Quinlevin 
returned  to  Paris,  and  what  would  be  Moira's  fate  unless 
she  accompanied  him  to  the  Rue  de  Tavennes?  Perhaps 
she  was  there  now.  Already  four  days  had  elapsed  since 
the  flight  from  the  Riviera  and  of  course  there  had  been 
ample  time  for  Quinlevin  and  his  illy-assorted  company 
to  return.  Horton  wanted  to  go  to  the  Rue  de  Tavennes 
and  try  to  learn  what  had  happened,  but  Piquette  advised 
against  it.  Until  the  responsibility  for  the  papers  was 
shifted  to  de  Vautrin,  she  did  not  think  it  wise  for  him  to 
take  any  risk  of  danger.  Jim  Horton  demurred,  but  when 
he  saw  how  much  in  earnest  she  was,  he  consented  to 
remain  in  hiding  a  few  days  longer. 

And  late  the  following  afternoon,  Monsieur  de  Vautrin 
not  yet  having  returned,  and  while  they  still  waited,  an 
astonishing  thing  happened,  for  Piquette's  maid,  under 
cover  of  nightfall  (as  was  the  arrangement)  brought 
the  letters  from  the  Boulevard  Clichy,  and  among  them 
was  a  Petit  Bleu  addressed  to  Jim  Horton.  He  picked  it 
up  gingerly  in  his  fingers  as  though  it  had  been  dynamite 
and  curiously  scrutinized  the  envelope.  It  augured  badly 
for  his  security  in  Paris  if  many  people  knew  so  readily 

where  he  was  to  be  found.  De  Vautrin  perhaps ? 

Or 

He  tore  the  envelope  open  quickly,  Piquette  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  It  was  in  French,  of  course,  and  he 
read, 

"Shall  be  alone  Rue  de  Tavennes  to-night  eight.  Forgive 
and  don't  fail.  MOIRA." 

285 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

He  read  the  lines  over  and  over,  Piquette  helping  him 
to  translate,  and  stood  a  moment  as  though  transfixed 
by  its  significance.  "Forgive."  That  was  the  word  that 
stood  out  in  black  letters.  What  had  come  over  her? 
Did  this  mean  that  driven  to  desperation  by  the  situation 
in  which  she  had  found  herself  she  had  been  forced 
against  her  will  to  plead  with  him  for  sanctuary?  Or  was 
it  help  that  she  needed?  Whatever  the  real  meaning  of 
the  message,  there  was  no  doubt  in  Jim  Horton's  mind  as 
to  where  his  duty  lay. 

But  Piquette  was  already  questioning  Celeste  rapidly. 

"When  did  this  Petit  Bleu  arrive?" 

"Not  an  hour  ago,  Madame." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Yes,  Madame,  positive.  I  myself  received  it  from  the 
messenger." 

"Very  well,  Celeste.  You  will  return  to  the  apartment 
and  if  any  other  message  arrives,  be  sure  to  bring  it  at 
once." 

"Yes,  Madame.'* 

"And  be  sure  to  take  the  roundabout  way  and  be  sure 
that  you  are  not  followed." 

"Yes,  Madame." 

When  the  woman  departed,  Piquette  took  the  blue  slip 
from  Jim  Horton's  fingers  and  sat  by  the  gas-light,  re- 
reading it  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"I  must  go,  of  course,  Piquette,"  said  Jim  quietly. 

"Yes,  mon  ami,  you  mus'  go.  An'  yet  there  are  some 
t'ings  I  don'  on'erstan'." 

"What,  Piquette?" 

"It  is  strange,  dis  sudden  change  of  min*  of  Madame 
'Orton,"  she  replied. 

"She  wants  me, — needs  me,"  said  Jim,  unaware  of  the 
pain  he  caused. 

Piquette  shrugged. 

286 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


"I  could  'ave  tol'  you  dat  at  Monte  Carlo,"  she  said 
dryly,  "but  to  ask  you  to  come  to  'er — it's  different,  dat." 


'And  yet  she  has  done  it- 


"De  character  of  Madame  'as  change'  a  great  deal  in 
a  few  days,  mon  Jeem." 

"Something  must  have  happened.  Her  position! 
Think  of  it,  Piquette." 

"I  do.  It  is  mos*  onpleasan*.  But  I  t'ink  you  would 
be  de  very  las'  person  she  would  sen'  for." 

"Who  then ?    Piquette,  I " 

She  rose,  and  handed  him  his  message.  "You  mus'  go," 
she  said  with  a  shrug,  "an'  dere  is  not  much  time.  But 

wit*  your  permission,  mon  Jeem "  she  added  firmly, 

"I  will  go  wit'  you." 

"You,  Piquette !"  he  stammered  dubiously. 

But  she  smiled  at  him. 

"Ah,  mon  ineux,  I  s'all  not  intrude.  You  know  dat, 
n'est-ce  pas?  But  Madame  'Orton  and  I,  we  on'erstan* 
each  oder.  Per'aps  I  can  'elp  'er  too.  An'  where  could 
she  go  onless  to  de  Boulevard  Clichy?" 

Jim  Horton  stood  speechless  for  a  moment  and  then, 
slowly,  "I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  muttered. 

They  dined  and  then  Piquette  went  to  her  room  to  put 
on  her  hat,  while  Jim  Horton  sat  watching  the  clock 
which  ticked  off  the  minutes  before  their  departure.  Of 
course  Moira's  appeal  for  forgiveness  was  only  the  weary 
cry  of  a  heart  sick  with  disappointment — a  cry  for 
sanctuary  from  the  dreaded  evils  that  encompassed  her. 
But  he  would  not  permit  himself  to  believe  that  it  meant 
any  new  happiness  for  him,  except  the  mere  joy  that  he 
would  find  in  doing  her  a  service.  What  he  hoped  was  that 
at  last  she  had  decided  to  permit  him  to  take  her  away 
from  Quinlevin.  With  that  he  would  be  content — must 
be  content — for  the  thing  that  separated  them  was 
stronger  than  her  will  or  his.  "There's  no  divorce  but 
287 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

death."  Her  words  came  to  him  again,  the  weary  tones 
with  which  she  had  uttered  them,  and  he  realized  again 
that  there  was  no  hope  for  her  or  for  him.  Even  if  his 
will  were  stronger  than  hers,  he  must  not  use  it  to  coerce 
her. 

When  Piquette  joined  him  they  went  forth  by  a  cir- 
cuitous way  toward  the  Rue  de  Tavennes.  To  be  certain 
that  they  were  not  recognized  they  avoided  the  populous 
streets  and  chose  narrow  by-ways,  shadowed  and  un- 
familiar, their  coat  collars  turned  up,  their  hats  pulled 
well  down  over  their  eyes,  while  Horton  strode  beside 
her,  saying  nothing.  To  see  Moira,  to  speak  to  her,  to 
take  her  away  from  the  rogue  who  had  for  so  long  held 
her  in  his  thrall.  .  .  . 

As  they  turned  into  the  Rue  de  Tavennes  Horton 
glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  some  moments  before  the 
appointed  hour.  Under  a  gas  lamp,  he  glanced  at 
Piquette.  He  thought  that  she  reemed  pale,  that  her 
dark  eyes  burned  with  a  deeper  intensity,  that  she  was 
compact  of  suppressed  emotions,  as  though  she  were 
driven  forward  upon  her  feet  by  a  power  beyond  her  to 
control.  And  something  of  her  tenseness  seemed  curiously 
communicated  to  him.  Was  it  that  Piquette  knew  that  the 
spell  that  bound  her  to  him  was  to  be  broken  to-night, 
that  the  strange  and  wonderful  friendship  that  she  had 
found  was  to  be  dissipated  by  a  new  element.  Why  had 
she  chosen  to  come  with  him — insisted  on  it  even?  And 
the  wrapt,  eager,  absorbed  look  he  had  seen  upon  her 
face  made  him  almost  ready  to  believe  that  she  had  in 
her  something  of  the  seer  and  prophetess  at  which  he  had 
been  pleased  to  jest.  He  knew  that  she  was  "game," 
physically,  spiritually,  and  that  she  could  walk  into  the 
face  of  danger  and  suffering  to  do  him  a  service.  It 
almost  seemed  as  though  she  had  chosen  to  come  with  him 
to-night  because  it  was  her  final  act  of  self-abnegation,  to 
288 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


bring  Jim  and  Moira  together — to  help  the  woman  he 
loved  to  security  if  not  to  happiness. 

As  they  neared  the  familiar  gate  of  Madame  Toupin, 
Horton  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  grave  responsibility. 
It  was  the  same  feeling  that  had  come  to  him  there  in 
the  trench  before  the  advance  upon  Boissiere  Wood,  the 
imminence  of  great  events,  the  splendid  possibilities  of 
success,  the  dire  consequences  of  failure,  a  hazard  of  some 
kind,  with  happiness  or  misery  for  many  as  the  stake. 

At  the  corner  Piquette  suddenly  caught  him  by  the 
elbow  and  held  him. 

"Wait,  man  ami,"  she  whispered.     "Wait!" 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  surprise  at  the  sudden  pause 
in  her  eager  footsteps. 

"Why,  Piquette?"  he  asked. 

"I — I  don'  know,  mon  Jeem,"  she  muttered  breath- 
lessly, one  hand  to  her  heart.  "I  don'  know — somet'ing 
tell  me  to  wait " 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back?"  he  asked. 

"No,  no " 

"What  then ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  Jus'  a  feeling  dat  you  should  not 
go.  I  am  not  sure " 

"But  I  don't  understand " 

"Nor  I,  mon  Jeem,"  she  laughed.  " 'Ave  I  not  tol* 
you  de  vrai  gamine  'ave  secon'  sight?  Forgive  me.  You 
t'ink  I  am  foolish.  But  it  is  'ere  in  my  'eart " 

"You  do  not  want  me  to  go  to  her,  Piquette?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  To  'er,  mon  Jeem.  C'est  bien.  Is  it  not  for  dat 
which  I  come?" 

She  hesitated  for  another  long  moment,  Jim  watching 
her,  and  then  raised  her  head  like  some  wild  creature 
sniffing  at  the  breeze. 

"Allons!"  she  said.     "We  shall  go  now." 

He  smiled  at  her  mood  and  they  went  on,  Piquette 
2E8 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

making  no  further  protest,  and  reached  the  gate  of 
Madame  Toupin,  where  they  paused  for  a  moment.  The 
loge  was  dark  and  the  gate  was  open.  This  was  unusual, 
but  Horton  remembered  that  sometimes  Madame  Toupin 
and  her  pretty  daughter  went  together  for  visits  in  the 
neighborhood.  Two  men  were  chatting  under  the  lamp 
in  the  court-yard,  but  so  absorbed  in  their  own  affair  that 
they  gave  no  attention  to  the  visitors  who  entered  the 
building  and  slowly  climbed  the  stairs,  so  familiar  to 
Jim,  and  so  suggestive  of  the  greatest  joy  and  the  greatest 
misfortune  he  had  ever  known.  Piquette  followed  him  one 
step  behind,  clinging  to  the  tail  of  his  overcoat.  They 
met  no  one.  A  light  showed  beyond  a  transom  on  the 
second  floor,  the  odor  of  a  cigarette  was  wafted  to  them, 
and  the  sound  of  a  voice  softly  singing.  There  was  no 
other  studio-apartment  on  the  third  floor  but  Moira's, 
and  they  mounted  the  steps  softly  on  tiptoe,  peering 
upward  into  the  obscurity  for  signs  of  illumination  that 
would  proclaim  occupancy.  But  they  could  see  no 
light  but  the  reflection  of  the  cold  starlit  sky  which  came 
through  a  window  on  the  stair  and  outlined  the  rail  and 
baluster. 

"Is  dere  no  light?"  asked  Piquette  in  a  voice  which  in 
spite  of  itself  seemed  no  more  than  a  whisper. 

"I  can't  see  any  yet,"  muttered  Jim.  And  then,  as  his 
head  came  in  line  with  the  floor,  he  pointed  upward. 
Above  the  door  the  transom  showed. 

"Ah!  Elle  est  la,"  she  gasped,  falling  into  her  native 
tongue  unconsciously. 

Silently  they  mounted  and  Jim  knocked  upon  the  door. 
There  was  no  reply.  He  knocked  more  loudly.  Silence 
again.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on  the  knob  and  turned 
it.  The  door  yielded  and  they  entered,  Piquette  peering 
curiously  over  his  shoulder,  and  around  the  room.  The 
gas-light,  turned  low,  cast  a  dim  light  over  the  room.  The 
290 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


corners  wsre  bathed  in  shadow,  and  Horton's  gaze  swept 
them  eagerly,  while  he  moved  here  and  there.  The  familiar 
chairs,  the  couch  by  the  big  window,  the  easel  with  its 
canvas,  the  draperies,  the  lay  figure,  seemed  to  be  all  as 
when  he  had  seen  them  last,  but  there  was  no  one  there. 
The  studio  was  empty.  With  Piquette  close  at  his  side 
he  went  to  the  door  of  the  kitchenette.  It  was  locked  and 
the  key  was  in  the  door.  It  had  been  fastened  from  the 
studio  side. 

"That's  curious,"  muttered  Jim.  "She  may  have  gone 
out  for  a  moment." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Piquette. 

Jim  went  around  the  studio,  glancing  at  the  windows, 
and  then  joined  his  companion  by  the  door,  scrutinizing 
his  watch. 

"We're  a  few  moments  early,  Piquette,"  he  muttered. 

"I  will  go  down,  man  ami,  and  ask  when  she  come  back," 
she  ventured. 

And  they  went  out  of  the  studio,  closing  the  door  behind 
them.  But  Jim  Horton  hesitated,  glancing  back  at  the 
door. 

"I  wonder  if  there  could  have  been  any  mistake,"  he 
muttered.  "Eight  o'clock.  I  don't  understand " 

"Jeem,"  said  Piquette,  "I  do  not  like  de  look  of  dis.  I 
am  afraid " 

She  peered  down  into- the  obscurity  suddenly  and  put 
her  fingers  to  her  lips. 

"Some  one  is  coming,"  she  murmured.  "It  is "  she 

paused,  listened,  and  then  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "It  is 
not  a  woman, — it  is  a  man.  Listen." 

He  obeyed,  catching  her  meaning  and  its  significance 
quickly.  The  footsteps  were  surely  not  those  of  a  woman, 
and  the  stairs  to  the  floor  below  creaked  heavily. 

"A  man!     Who?"  he  muttered. 

"It  is  what  I  fear*.  We  mus'  'ide — somewhere — quick!" 
291 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

The  door  of  the  hall-room  Jim  had  slept  in  was  near 
them.  Tiptoeing  over  to  it  quickly,  the  girl  behind  him, 
he  tried  the  knob.  It  yielded  and  they  entered  its  dark- 
ness, leaving  the  door  wide  enough  open  so  that  they 
could  look  out.  The  man  was  now  climbing  up  the  stair 
and  reached  the  landing.  If  either  of  them  had  expected 
to  see  Barry  Quinlevin  they  were  disappointed,  for  the 
figure  was  heavier,  strangely  similar  to  Jim  Horton's,  and 
like  him  wore  a  dark  overcoat  and  slouch  hat.  And  while 
they  peered  out  at  him,  the  man  hesitated,  looked  up  at 
the  transom  and  then  turned  the  knob  and  entered  the 
studio,  closing  the  door  carefully  behind  him.  Jim  Horton 
had  felt  Piquette's  fingers  clutch  his  arm  and  questioned 
in  a  whisper. 

"What  is  it,  Piquette?" 

"Your  broder — 'Arry,"  she  gasped. 

"Impossible.    He's  at  camp " 

"I  would  swear  it " 

"In  civilian  clothes?  He  knows  better  than  that."  He 
laughed  gently.  "You're  nervous,  Piquette " 

"It's  'Arry,  I  tell  you,"  she  insisted.  "I  am  not  mis- 
take'  " 

"H-m.    It  did  look  like  him— but  what—?" 

"I  doan  know.     Its  strange  what  I  t'ink " 

"But  why  should  Harry  come  here  when  Moira  sent 
j> 

"An'  what  if  she  did  not  send  you  de  Petit  Bleu?" 

"You  mean ?" 

"I  doan  know " 

"That  Harry  sent  it?  Why  would  he  want  to  meet 
me?"  he  shrugged.  "But  it's  queer,  Piquette.  If  he's 
here  to  worry  her  again  I'll  break  his  head." 

"Sh ,"  whispered  Piquette,  calming  him.    "She  mus' 

go  wit'  me,  mon  ami." 

He  nodded. 

292 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


"But  she  isn't  there.     I  don't  understand." 

"We  mus'  wait  'ere." 

And  so  they  stood  at  the  door,  listening  for  sounds 
from  below.  Silence.  And  then  a  strange  commotion 
close  at  hand. 

Suddenly  Piquette  clutched  Jim's  arm. 

"Jeem !"  he  heard  her  whisper  in  sudden  terror.  "What 
is  it?" 

He  had  heard  the  same  thing  too,  a  faint  sound,  like  a 
cough,  followed  by  a  groan  as  though  some  one  were 
struggling  for  breath.  Another  pause  while  they  listened 
again.  There  was  no  mistaking  it  now.  Jim  Horton 
had  heard  the  same  sounds  before  from  the  throat  of  one 
of  the  Engineers  w.ho  had  been  horribly  gassed.  Another 
groan,  then  the  impact  of  a  heavy  body  falling. 

Jim  Horton  sprang  out  into  the  hallway,  drawing  his 
automatic,  and  threw  himself  against  the  studio  door.. 
It  was  locked.  He  assaulted  it  again,  again,  and  at  last 
the  door-jamb  tore  away  and  he  was  precipitated  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  revolver  in  hand,  glaring  about  him, 
Piquette  close  beside  him,  her  eyes  distended  with  horror.; 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  near  the  fireplace  lay  the 
figure  of  a  man,  quite  motionless,  a  dark  blotch  growing 
on  the  rug  beneath  his  body.  And  the  distorted  face 
turned  toward  the  feeble  light  of  the  flickering  gas-jet 
was  that  of  his  brother — Harry. 

"Sainte  Vierge,"  came  from  Piquette  in  an  awed  tone. 
"  5E  'as  kill'  'imself." 

But  Jim  was  bending  over  the  body. 

"Impossible.  A  knife  under  the  arm — in  the  heart. 
It's  murder!" 

He  straightened,  keenly  alert,  and  searched  the  room 
quickly,  weapon  in  hand,  thoroughly,  aware  of  its  pos- 
293 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

sibilities  for  concealment.  A  chair  was  overturned  but 
the  lay  figure,  the  draperies,  the  easel  were  undisturbed, 
and  the  door  into  the  kitchen  was  locked,  the  key  on  the 
outside,  as  before.  The  thing  was  unbelievable,  and  the 
mystery  deepened  as  he  searched.  Moira  was  not  here — 
had  not  been  here — he  was  sure  of  it  now.  This  trap, 
super-natural  it  seemed,  had  been  set  to  catch  Jim  Horton 
and  Harry — God  knows  how  or  why — Harry  had  walked 
into  it. 

As  Piquette  bent  over  to  examine  the  dead  man,  Horton 
hauled  her  away  quickly.  He  had  just  wits  enough  left 
to  know  how  dangerous  was  his  own  position. 

"Don't  touch  anything — this  is  a  case  for  the  police. 
Come." 

And  he  led  the  way  down  the  stairs  to  the  second  floor, 
shouting  incoherently  for  help,  while  Piquette,  her  tongue 
loosened,  now  ably  seconded  him.  And  in  a  moment,  it 
seemed,  the  entire  household  appeared  in  the  hallway, 
while  people  from  the  court  and  from  the  street  came 
crowding  up. 

Horton,  who  knew  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  the 
murderer's  escape  by  the  window,  stood  at  the  stair  on 
the  second  floor,  guarding  it,  still  bewildered  by  the 
mystery,  trying  to  explain  while  the  crowd  surged  up  and 
a  police  officer  who  had  been  passing,  forced  his 
way  through.  To  him  Piquette,  gathering  her  courage, 
explained,  telling  him  briefly  what  had  happened  while 
they  had  watched  from  the  room  upstairs.  The  police 
officer  went  up  with  Horton  and  Piquette,  and  entered 
the  studio,  the  crowd  following  to  the  door,  where  the 
policeman  commanded  them  to  stop.  Then  while  he 
questioned  Piquette  he  lighted  all  the  burners  and 
examined  the  body,  then  the  closet,  the  windows  and  with 
drawn  weapon  approached  the  door  to  the  kitchenette. 
294 


THE  PETIT  BLEU 


It  was  still  locked,  the  key  still  in  the  door.  He  turned 
the  key — then  locked  it  again. 

"You  say  you  tried  this  door  when  you  first — entered 
the  room?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Piquette  promptly.  "We  thought 
that  Madame  Horton  might  be  inside.  But  finding  it 
locked  we  did  not  go  in." 

The  policeman  drew  back  muttering. 

"Most  extraordinary !"  he  said.  "There  is  a  door  from 
these  other  rooms  into  the  hallway  outside?" 

"Yes." 

The  policeman  pushed  a  way  through  the  crowd  and 
tried  the  door  from  the  outside.  It,  too,  was  locked. 

He  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"No  one  came  out  of  this  door?5* 

"No  one,  no  one,  Monsieur." 

"And  this  other  door?"  indicating  the  hall  room. 

"There  was  no  one  there,'*  said  a  man  who  seemed  much 
at  home.  "One  of  us  went  in  when  we  came  up  the  stair 
and  came  out  saying  it  was  empty.  Look !  You  may  see 
for  yourself."  And  he  threw  the  door  open  while  the 
officer  investigated.  He  came  out  more  puzzled  than 
ever,  rejoining  Horton  and  Piquette  at  the  door  of  the 
studio,  summoning  the  man  and  one  or  two  of  the  others, 
with  Horton  and  Piquette,  as  witnesses,  taking  the  names 
and  addresses  carefully. 

"This  is  a  case  for  the  Commissaire,"  he  said  to  them. 
"You  will  please  wait." 


CHAPTER  XXH 
MYSTERY 

THE  sudden  extraordinary  turn  of  events  and  the 
inexplicable  horror  of  nis  brother's  death  had  so 
bewildered  Jim  Horton  that  he  stood  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  Commissaire  de  Police  in  a  kind  of  stupe- 
faction, looking1  down  at  the  huddled  form  of  the  man 
upon  the  floor,  unable  to  think  with  any  clearness.  The 
officer  requested  him  not  to  move  or  touch  anything,  and 
Piquette  stood  beside  Jim  as  though  to  give  him  courage. 
But  the  policeman  kept  an  eye  on  Horton  and  remained 
by  the  door,  watching  outside  and  in  as  though  guarding 
it  against  his  possible  escape.  Horton  noticed  this  but 
remained  immovable,  aware  that  the  fellow  was  only  doing 
his  duty,  and  that  further  explanations  must  await  the 
arrival  of  the  Commissaire,  who  had  been  telephoned  for. 
The  furniture  of  the  studio,  each  object  of  which 
possessed  for  Jim  some  poignant  association,  seemed 
strangely  familiar,  yet  unreal.  The  chairs,  the  rugs,  the 
hangings,  had  suddenly  become  merely  a  background  for 
the  body  lying  among  them,  a  part  of  it,  linked  in  a 
horrible  conspiracy  of  silence,  Moira's  plain  furniture, 
her  easel,  which  still  bore  the  placid  portrait  of  the 
indomitable  Parisienne  who  had  refused  to  be  a  frous- 
sarde ;  the  arm  chair  by  the  fireplace  in  which  Moira  had 
sat,  the  table  from  which  they  had  supped ;  the  lay  figure 
in  its  old  costume,  felt  hat  and  draperies;  the  couch  by 
the  window;  the  brass  bowl  on  the  mantel,  full  of  Moira's 
brushes — all  of  them  spoke  so  eloquently  of  her.  And 
Moira.  .  .  . 

296 


MYSTERY 


He  frowned  as  he  tried  to  put  the  pieces  of  the  puzzle 
together.  The  knife  in  his  brother's  side  had  been  intended 
for  him.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that,  and  the  motive  for 
the  crime  was  obvious.  .  .  .  Quinlevin.  .  .  .  Tricot? 
Yes.  But  how?  His  glance  passed  over  the  room  again 
and  again,  seeking  in  vain  the  answer.  His  guardian  had 
preferred  to  await  the  arrival  of  his  superior  before 
examining  the  kitchenette  and  bed-rooms,  but  with  the 
door  locked  upon  the  outside  there  was  no  hope  that  the 
solution  of  the  mystery  would  be  found  there. 

Meanwhile,  Jim  Horton's  mind  became  slowly  impreg- 
nated with  the  realization  of  his  own  position  which  must 
become  more  dubious  when  he  answered  the  questions  of 
the  Commissaire,  for  answer  them  he  must,  telling  the 
whole  of  his  story  if  it  were  necessary,  without  thought 
of  consequences  to  himself  or  others.  The  future  became 
at  each  moment  more  ominous.  Horrible  as  the  thought 
was,  they  might  even  suspect  him  of  this  crime  and  even 
if  he  escaped  that  disaster,  with  the  publicity  which  must 
follow,  the  Provost  Guard  awaited  him.  But  at  his  side 
was  Piauette,  who  had  seen  what  he  had  seen  and  who 
knew  wnat  he  knew  and  he  felt  her  fingers  clasp  his  with 
a  valiant  touch  that  gave  him  courage  and  assurance. 

And  in  a  short  while  the  Commissaire  entered,  followed 
by  his  secretary,  several  Agents  and  newspaper  men.  The 
Commissaire,  Monsieur  Matthieu,  was  a  man  of  medium 
height  strongly  built,  with  small  sharp  eyes,  and  reddish 
hair.  He  went  about  the  affair  with  a  business-like  mien, 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  the  policeman  who  had  first 
come,  glancing  quickly  at  Horton,  Piquette,  and  the  other 
witnesses. 

"Let  no  one  enter  the  room,"  he  said  in  his  sharp 
staccato,  when  he  had  selected  his  witnesses.  "Let  no  one 
leave  it." 

Then  quickly  he  questioned  Horton  and  Piquette  as  to 
297 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

their  visit  and  the  exact  circumstances  of  their  discovery 
of  the  body.  Horton  was  at  a  loss,  but  Piquette  spoke 
rapidly  and  in  a  few  moments  had  given  the  Commissaire 
a  complete  narration  of  their  experiences  from  the  moment 
they  had  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  studio  of  Madame 
Horton. 

"You  say  that  you  and  this  monsieur  came  to  this 
room  by  appointment  to  meet  Madame  Horton  at  eight 
o'clock?"  questioned  the  Commissaire. 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"That  you  came  up  the  stair  and  as  the  door  was 
unlocked,  you  entered  this  room,  finding  it  empty?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"And  the  door  to  the  apartment  yonder  was  locked 
from  this  side  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock  as  it  is  at  this 
moment  ?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"The  rooms  beyond,  then,  have  not  yet  been  entered?" 
he  asked  of  the  policeman  who  had  come  up  at  the  first 
alarm. 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire." 

"Bien.     Then  we  shall  enter  at  once." 

He  nodded  significantly  to  the  two  Agents,  who  took 
their  places  by  Jim  and  Piquette,  and  with  his  secretary 
and  the  policeman  following  him,  M.  Matthieu  unlocked 
the  door  into  the  kitchenette  and  investigated  the  kitchen 
and  bedrooms. 

When  he  reappeared  some  moments  later  his  face  was 
puzzled.  But  he  went  to  the  big  studio  window  and 
examined  the  catches. 

"These  windows  you  say  were  also  locked?"  he  asked  of 
Horton  suddenly,  in  excellent  English. 

"They  were — all  of  them,"  said  Horton. 

"Then  you  did  not  know  that  one  of  them  was  open?" 
298 


MYSTERY 


"Open!"  Horton  crossed  the  room  eagerly.;  "I  could 
have  sworn " 

"You  observe ?"  said  the  Frenchman,  and  touching 

the  window,  it  swung  open  noiselessly. 

"That's  strange,"  muttered  Horton,  "I  thought  the 
catch  was  on.  But  even  so,"  he  added,  "there  was  no 
chance  for  the  murderer  to  have  escaped  there.  As  you 
will  see,  Monsieur,  it  is  a  blank  wall  of  full  three  stories 
in  height." 

The  Commissaire  peered  out.  There  was  a  broad 
wooden  ledge  or  sill  just  outside,  but  the  ledge  led  nowhere 
and  he  could  see  that  what  Horton  had  stated  was  true. 
It  was  sixty  feet  to  the  flagging  of  the  court  below  and 
a  drop  meant  death  or  injury  to  any  one  who  dared 
attempt  it.  Nor  was  there  any  sign  of  a  rope  or  ladder. 

"H-m.  We  shall  wait  for  daylight  for  that.  In  the 

meanwhile "  he  relapsed  into  silence,  gazing  about 

the  room  with  great  care,  examining  each  object  and 
coming  at  last  to  the  body. 

"It  has  not  been  touched?"  he  questioned  of  the  police- 
man. 

"No,  Monsieur." 

He  walked  around  the  corpse  dictating  quickly  to  the 
man  with  the  note-book  and  then  drew  the  knife  from  the' 
wound.  It  was  a  two-edged  affair  at  least  six  inches  in 
length,  a  weapon  evidently  intended  for  just  such  a  deadly 
business. 

"He  was  struck  below  the  left  arm  and  from  behind," 
Piquette  heard  him  dictate,  "the  direction  of  the  weapon 
in  the  body  indicating  without  the  possibility  of  a  doubt 
that  the  wound  was  not  self-inflicted.  A  case  of  murder," 
he  finished,  looking  up  at  Horton,  who  had  followed  his 
motions  with  intense  interest. 

Then  he  moved  the  body  so  that  it  lay  flat  upon  the 
299 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

floor,  throwing  a  pocket  light  full  upon  the  face,  starting 
back  in  amazement. 

"Monsieur !"  he  gasped  to  Horton,  and  then  threw  the 
light  suddenly  into  Jim  Horton's  face. 

"Monsieur  Horton,  did  you  know ?" 

"It  is  my  brother,"  said  Jim  quietly. 

"Nom  cTun  cliien!    I  could  swear  it  was  yourself."1 

"My  twin  brother,  Monsieur,"  repeated  Horton. 

Monsieur  Matthieu's  eyes  narrowed  as  he  gazed  at  Jim. 
"The  case  becomes  more  interesting.  H-m.  You  will  now 
tell  me,  please,  what  happened  when  you  went  out  of  the 
studio  into  the  hallway." 

Horton  nodded. 

"We  thought  of  going  away  and  returning  when 
Madame  Horton,  my  sister-in-law,  should  return." 

"The  wife  of  the  murdered  man?"  broke  in  the  Com- 
nussaire. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Jim.  "As  we  were  about  to  go 
down  to  the  court  below  we  heard  the  footsteps  of  some 
one  coming  up.  But  it  was  not  Madame  Horton.  We 
knew  that  by  the  sounds.  It  was  a  man's  step — so  we 
withdrew  into  the  little  hall  room  and  watched." 

"The  facts  are  curious,  Monsieur  Horton,"  put  in  the 
Commissaire  with  sudden  interest.  "Why  did  you  wish  to 
conceal  yourself  from  the  other  visitors  of  Madame 
Horton?" 

The  question  was  pertinent  and  there  could  be  no 
evading  a  reply.  So  Jim  told  briefly  of  Quinlevin,  Moira 
and  Harry  and  his  unfriendly  relationship  with  his 
brother.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  the  gasps  and  whisperings 
among  the  listeners  which  gave  him  an  unpleasant  realiza- 
tion of  their  conception  of  the  affair.  And  the  testimony 
of  Piquette,  who  grew  angry  at  the  sounds  from  the  au- 
ditors, did  nothing  to  improve  his  situation. 
300 


MYSTERY 


"I  see,  Monsieur,"  said  M.  Matthieu  sagely.  "It  is  wise 
that  you  see  fit  to  tell  us  the  truth  now  since  it  must  all 
come  out  later.  There  was  bad  blood  between  you  and 
your  brother  and  between  you  and  Monsieur  Quinlevin 
— so  that  you  feared  a  plot  in  the  Petit  Bleu  which  meant 
to  do  you  violence?" 

"Not  when  I  received  the  message,  Monsieur.  I  came 
here  with  Madame  Morin  in  good  faith  to  try  and  help 
Madame  Horton — to  take  her  away  from  a  situation  in 
which  she  was  most  unhappy." 

"And  your  relations  with  your  sister-in-law?"  asked  the 
Commissaire. 

Horton  flushed  angrily,  but  he  realized  that  the  man 
was  within  his  rights.  As  Piquette  cried  excitedly, 

"Madame  'Orton  was  on'appy  wit'  'er  'usband,  Monsieur 
?> 

"Madame  Horton  and  I  were  the  best  of  friends " 

broke  in  Jim  quietly. 

"Evidently,"  said  M.  Matthieu  dryly. 

The  changed  manner  of  Monsieur  Matthieu,  his  sudden 
air  of  intense  interest  in  Jim  himself,  and  the  keen 
appraisal  in  his  eyes  did  not  augur  well  for  the  result  of 
the  investigation. 

"You  will  please  go  on  with  the  rest  of  the  story, 
Monsieur,"  he  added,  and  then  with  a  glance  at  Piquette, 
"And  you,  Madame,  will  be  pleased  to  remain  silent  until 
I  question  you.  You  say  that  you  realized  that  the  visitor 
coming  up  the  stair  was  a  man  .and  that  you  and  Madame 
withdrew  in  the  darkness  into  the  little  hall-room  and 
waited?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.5' 

"And  you  both  saw  the  man  come  up  the  stairs  to  the 
studio  door.  What  happened  then?" 

"He  turned  the  knob  and  entered." 
301 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Had  you  recognized  him  as  your  brother  at  that 
time?" 

"I  hadn't.  I  thought  that  my  brother  had  joined  his 
regiment." 

"Ah — a  soldier!  And  do  you  know  why  he  is  here  in 
civilian's  clothes?" 

"I  do  not." 

"Did  Madame  Morin  recognize  him?" 

"Yes.     But  I  didn't  believe  it  was  he — even  then." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  smiled  and  shrugged.  "And  you 
didn't  realize  how  much  alike  you  were  in  your  dark  over- 
coats and  soft  hats?" 

"No." 

"And  after  your  brother  went  in  at  the  studio  door, 
how  long  did  you  and  Madame  wait  in  the  hall  room?"  * 

"I  don't  know  exactly — a  matter  of  four  or  five 
minutes,  when  we  heard  sounds  in  the  studio  and  the  fall- 
ing of  a  body." 

"And  you  rushed  out  to  the  studio  door  and  went  in?" 
asked  the  Commissaire  craftily. 

"The  door  was  locked,"  said  Jim.  "I  put  my  shoulder 
against  it  and  broke  it  in." 

"Ah.     You  broke  it  in?    How  long  did  that  take?" 

"Perhaps  half  a  minute." 

"And  when  you  entered  the  room,  Madame  was  with 
you?" 

"Yes — just  behin*  heem,"  broke  in  Piquette  eagerly. 

M.  Matthieu  glanced  at  Piquette  with  a  frown  which 
silenced  her. 

"And  what  did  you  see,  Monsieur?" 

"What  you  saw,  Monsieur — my  brother  lying  there — 
the  chair  upset — but  no  sign  of  any  one  in  the  room.  It 
was  very  mystifying." 

"Yes,  it  must  have  been,"  dryly,  "miraculous,  in  fact. 
And  then  what  did  you  do?" 
302 


MYSTERY 


"I  examined  the  room  thoroughly — I  was  bewildered, 
Monsieur.  I  couldn't  understand  any  more  than  you  can, 
because  the  only  door  by  which  the  murderer  could  have 
escaped  I  found  to  be  locked — as  you  found  it,  Monsieur." 

"Most  extraordinary!  And  what  is  your  theory  as  to 
the  escape  of  the  murderer?" 

"I  haven't  any.  The  more  I  think,  the  more  astounding 
it  seems.  I  couldn't  believe,  unless  I  had  seen  all  these 
things  with  my  own  eyes.'* 

"And  you,  Madame  ?"  he  asked  at  last  in  French,  turn- 
ing to  Piquette. 

"What  Monsieur  tells  is  the  truth,  Monsieur  le  CoTtir 
missaire.  I  swear." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  laughed. 

"Come  now.  What  you  two  ask  me  to  think  is  beyond 
belief.  I  come  to  this  room  and  find  a  man  murdered  by 
a  dastardly  blow  dealt  by  a  man  of  great  muscular  force." 
Here  he  ran  a  careless  glance  up  and  down  Jim  Horton's 
long  figure.  "The  only  door  by  which  he  could  have 
escaped  is  locked,  exit  by  the  window  is  impossible,  and 
you  and  Madame  guard  the  stairs  until  the  crowd  gathers. 
Do  you  think  you  will  get  me  to  believe  that  the  murderer 
flew  up  the  chimney?" 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  anything,"  said  Jim,  trying 
to  keep  his  nerve. 

"But  I  must  believe  the  evidence  of  my  observation. 
There  is  no  way  in  which  the  man  could  have  passed  you 
on  the  stair?" 

"None,"  said  Jim  helplessly,  "until  I  came  up  with  the 
policeman  no  one  went  down.'* 

"That  is  true,"  added  Piquette.  "Monsieur  'Orton  was 
armed.  No  one  could  have  passed  him.'* 

Here  the  Commussalre  was  puzzled,  for  what  had 
seemed  clearer  a  moment  ago  was  lost  in  the  frankness  of 
this  confession. 

303 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Where  are  the  other  witnesses  in  the  case?"  he  asked 
of  the  policeman. 

"Here,  Monsieur,"  indicating  one  of  the  men  he  had 
detained.  "This  man  was  in  the  hall  with  the  crowd. 
These  others  too  are  willing  to  testify." 

The  secretary  took  the  witness's  name,  Paul  Joubert, 
his  address,  and  M.  Matthieu  questioned  him. 

"You  have  heard  the  testimony  of  Monsieur  Horton?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur."1 

"It  is  true?" 

"In  every  particular.  I  and  these  others,"  indicating 
the  men  beside  him,  "came  up  the  stairs  to  the  landing 
and  entered  the  studio." 

"How  many  were  there  in  the  crowd?" 

"Eight — ten — a  dozen,"  he  replied,  while  the  others 
confirmed  him. 

"Did  you  know  them  all?" 

"Ah  no,  Monsieur.  I  live  in  the  Court  at  the  rear. 
Some  of  them  were  strangers  who  ran  in  from  the  street." 

"There  was  no  one  in  the  upper  hall?" 

"No  one." 

"And  in  the  hall-room?" 

"One  of  the  men  who  had  lushed  up  examined  the  room 
and  said  it  was  empty.  I  went  in  myself  also  and  saw 
that  this  was  so." 

"Is  the  man  who  first  went  into  the  hall-room  here?" 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire.  I  do  not  recognize  him, 
the  light  from  the  doorway  was  dim  and — 

"All  right,"  said  Matthieu.     "No  matter." 

And  then, 

"And  the  other  door  from  the  apartment  to  the  hall- 
way remained  locked  all  the  time?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  No  one  came  out  of  there.  We  tried 
it  many  times." 

"H-m.  And  you  have  no  theory  as  to  how  any  one 
304 


MYSTERY 


could   have   escaped   from  the  room  under  the  circum- 
stances?" 

"No,  Monsieur.     It  is  nothing  less  than  a  miracle." 

The  other  witnesses  shook  their  heads  in  confirmation 
of  the  testimony. 

"That  will  do,  Monsieur  Joubert."  And  then  turning 
to  Horton.  "Now,  Monsieur  Horton,  what  did  you  think 
when  you  found  the  body  of  your  brother,  when  you  had 
positive  proof  that  unless  the  murderer  had  jumped  from 
the  window  to  death,  he  must  at  that  moment  have  been 
in  the  room?" 

Horton  had  courage  but  he  couldn't  deceive  himself 
as  to  the  intent  of  the  question.  The  cord  was  tightening. 
He  fel!;  it  in  the  looks  of  those  around  him,  in  the  fright- 
ened breathing  of  Piquette  and  in  the  steady  gaze  of  his 
questioner,  which  he  met  with  more  and  more  difficulty. 
But  he  managed  to  answer  calmly. 

"Think!  Why,  I  couldn't  think,  Monsieur.  I  was 
bewildered,  dazed,  stupefied  with  astonishment  and  hor- 
ror." 

"But  you  must  give  me  credit  for  some  intelligence," 
protested  the  Commissaire.  "Since  the  murderer  couldn't 
have  gone  out  of  the  door  while  you  say  you  were  break- 
ing in,  he  must  have  been  in  the  room  all  the  while." 

"There  was  no  one  in  the  room.     I  searched  it." 

"That  is  true,"  almost  screamed  Piquette  in  her  excite- 
ment. "I  was  wit'  'im.  There  was  no  one." 

"Quietly,  Madame,"  said  M.  Matthieu  reprovingly. 
And  then,  "Monsieur  Horton,  when  you  searched  the 
room,  what  did  you  do?" 

"What    you   would    have    done,    Monsieur — I    rushed 
down  the  stair  and  gave  the  alarm,  watching  the  stair  and 
waiting  for  the  police.     I  am  as  mystified  as  you.     If  I 
could  tell  you  any  more  I  would  do  so." 
305 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Monsieur  Matthieu  tapped  his  eye-glasses  thoughtfully 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  spoke.  And  then, 

"Where  is  Madame  Horton?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"And  Monsieur  Quinlevin?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  have  no  means  of  helping  me  to  find  them?" 

"If  I  had  I  would  tell  you." 

A  pause.  And  then  the  Commiissaire  cleared  his  throat 
in  an  important  manner. 

"I  have  a  feeling  that  you  are  keeping  something  back, 
Monsieur  Horton.  I  warn  you  that  you  will  not  make 
things  easy  for  yourself  in  making  them  difficult  for  me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Monsieur?"  asked  Jim,  sure  that 
his  position  and  Piquette's  had  now  grown  desperate. 

"Merely,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Commissiaire  with  a 
glance  at  the  dead  man,  "that  blows  such  as  this  are  not 
struck  by  spiritual  agencies,  that  when  there  is  a  mur- 
dered man  there  must  also  be  a  murderer.  Your  testi- 
mony and  that  of  Madame  Morin  agree,  but  then  I  cannot 
neglect  the  possibility  that  you  may  have  some  object 
in  agreeing." 

"You  believe  that  I "    Horton  broke  in  in  horror. 

"I  believe  nothing  until  it  is  definitely  proved.  I  admit 
that  there  are  many  phases  of  this  case  which  seem  favor- 
able to  a  belief  in  your  story.  But  there  are  also  some 
points  which  from  your  testimony  seem  to  be — er — in- 
credible. We  do  not  live  in  an  age  of  miracles.  Murders 
are  not  committed  by  spirits  who  vanish.  There  was  bad 
blood  between  you  and  your  brother.  You  yourself  have 
admitted  it.  Madame  Morin  had  a  suspicion  when  he 
came  up  the  stair  that  the  Petit  Bleu  you  received  was  a 
trap  intended  for  you " 

"Which  my  brother  fell  into,"  said  Horton,  in  a  last 
desperate  effort  to  clear  himself.  "Why,  Monsieur,  you 
306 


MYSTERY 


yourself  can  see  how  like  we  are*    The  blow  was  intended 
for  me " 

"You  are  fortunate,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Commissaire, 
with  a  shrug.  "And  you  will  have  every  chance  to  prove 
your  innocence.  But  I  cannot  take  the  grave  responsi- 
bility of  liberating  you.  The  case  must  go  to  the  Prefet 
and  will  be  heard  in  its  entirety,  including  the  many  de- 
tails which  have  been  suggested  as  to  Madame  Horton  and 
Monsieur  Quinlevin.  I  am  only  sent  here  to  investigate 
the  case  in  its  physical  aspects.  And  the  result  of  the 
investigation  is  to  place  you  and  Madame  Morin  under 
arrest." 

Horton  straightened  and  glanced  around  at  the  others 
in  the  room.  They  had  ceased  to  have  personalities. 
They  looked  like  wax  images — staring  at  him  in  wonder, 
in  curiosity,  as  though  he  were  already  condemned.  From 
them  his  glance  found  Piquette.  Her  face  was  white  and 
she  was  staring  at  the  Commissaire  as  though  she  could 
not  believe  the  evidence  of  her  ears. 

"Why,  Monsieur,  have  we  not  told  you ?"  he  heard 

her  begin,  when  the  officer  silenced  her. 

"You  will  have  every  opportunity  to  testify  to-morrow, 
Madame." 

She  sent  one  glance  at  him,  the  gamwe  in  her  terrified 
at  the  Law  as  represented  in  the  man  before  her,  and  then 
bewildered,  rushed  to  Jim  and  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"Courage,  mon  ami,"  she  gasped.  "You  'ave  on'y  to 
speak  de  truth." 

"I'm  not  frightened,"  he  said,  "but  you,  Piquette— -a, 
prison " 

"It's  not'ing "  she  said  bravely,  but  he  saw  that 

she  was  on  the  point  of  breaking. 

"And  now,"  broke  in  the  Commissaire,  who  had  watched 
this  byplay  with  some  interest,  "I  am  sorry  that  we  must 
be  off.  Come." 

307 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

And  giving  some  instructions  as  to  the  witnesses  to  one 
of  the  Agents  de  police  who  had  accompanied  him,  and 
taking  the  revolver  which  Horton  silently  offered  him,  he 
led  the  way  down  the  stair,  with '  Piquette  and  Horton 
following,  policemen  at  their  elbows. 

A  great  crowd  had  assembled  in  the  street  and  court- 
yard below.  Horton  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  white  cap 
and  whiter  face  of  Madame  Toupin  at  the  door  of  her 
loge,  and  then  was  hurried  by  a  policeman  into  a  car- 
riage which  was  awaiting  them.  He  saw  poor  Piquette 
put  into  another  one  and  they  drove  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  Prefecture  de  Police,  where  he  was  shown  without 
ceremony  into  a  cell  alone  to  await  a  further  investiga- 
tion upon  the  morrow. 

He  sank  down  upon  the  cot,  buried  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  tried  to  think. 

Quinlevin  was  at  the  bottom  of  this — Quinlevin — Tri- 
cot. One  of  them  had  done  this  dastardly  thing,  believ- 
ing to  save  their  skins  and  thinking  that  they  were  kill- 
ing him.  But  how  had  the  murderer  gotten  away  ?  How  ? 
How? 


CHAPTER 

ESCAPE 

THE  events  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris  at  Nice,  the  reve- 
lation in  Monsieur  de  Vautrin's  rooms,  the  con- 
fession of  Piquette  Morin  and  the  startling  events 
that  immediately  followed  it  were  all  bewildering.  From 
affection  for  Quinlevin,  Moira  had  passed  through  the 
stages  of  incredulity,  doubt,  and  reassurance,  and  then  at 
Nora's  downfall,  dismay  at  her  own  position,  and  after 
Quinlevin's  brutal  treatment  of  her,  aversion  and  terror. 
When  he  turned  the  key  of  her  door  and  went  with  Pi- 
quette into  his  own  room,  she  threw  herself  into  her  chair, 
aware  of  her  dependence  upon  him,  and  yet  ready  to 
run  away  and  throw  herself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  first 
stranger  that  she  could  find.  But  the  sounds  that  came 
from  behind  the  closed  door  fascinated  her,  the  murmur 
of  conversation  rising  and  falling,  and  then  the  strange 
noises,  heard  indistinctly  yet  frightful  in  their  signifi- 
cance. The  silence  that  followed,  still  more  suggestive. 
She  shrank  upon  her  bed  in  terror,  shutting  her  ears 
with  her  fingers.  Then  the  renewal  of  the  commotion,  as 
she  raised  her  hands,  her  terror  inquisitive  for  the  worst — 
the  sound  of  blows,  the  grunts  of  men  in  struggle,  and 
then  the  falling  of  a  body. 

Tricot  and  Quinlevin — they  were  killing  each  other. 
*  .  .  That  was  the  chief  thought  in  her  mind — that  and 
the  imperative  need  of  escape.  She  got  up,  trembling, 
and  went  to  the  door,  shooting  the  brass  bolt,  then  turned, 
catching  up  her  coat  and  gloves.  The  door  into  the 
corridor  was  locked  but  she  could  still  go  out  through 
309 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Nora's  room.  She  tried  the  other  door,  but  found  it 
locked  on  the  outside.  She  called  Nora  softly,  then  more 
loudly,  and  heard  the  woman  answer.  Presently,  by  dint 
of  wild  persuasion,  she  prevailed  upon  her  old  nurse  to 
open  the  door.  Nora  was  red  of  face,  disheveled,  and 
bewildered. 

"What  is  it  ye  want,  alanah?" 

"I  must  go — you  must  go  with  me,"  she  stammered. 

"For  why?  Isn't  it  enough  I've  been  through  this  day 
widout " 

But  Moira  pushed  her  way  past  the  woman. 

"Something  dreadful  has  happened — in  there,"  she 
stammered,  her  face  white,  "I  can't  stay " 

"What  then " 

"A  fight — Mr.  Quinlevin  and  Tricot " 

The  woman  tried  to  restrain  her  but  Moira  flung  her- 
self away  and  unlocked  the  door. 

"Ye'll  not  be  lavin'  me  here  alone,"  gasped  Nora. 

"Come  then.     Quickly." 

And  she  fled  out  into  the  corridor,  the  woman  follow- 
ing, down  the  stairway  and  into  the  night.  .  .  .  The  mem- 
ory of  those  dreadful  hours  of  wandering  with  Nora  along 
the  roads  was  like  a  dream  in  a  fever,  but  after  awhile 
the  physical  exercise  made  her  more  calm  and  she  was 
able  to  explain  to  the  frightened  Irish  woman  what  had 
happened. 

Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  flee  from  it  all — to  escape 
anywhere — but  without  money  where  should  she  go  ?  With 
the  return  of  reason  came  courage.  And  with  courage 
a  resolve  to  go  back  and  do  what  she  could  for  Piquette 
Morin.  They  would  not  have  dared  to  kill  her.  It  was 
impossible.  An  impulse  to  tell  the  people  of  the  hotel 
what  had  happened  came  to  her  again,  but  as  she  turned 
toward  the  gardens,  followed  heavily  by  the  frightened 
310 


ESCAPE 


Nora,  she  resolved  to  go  upstairs  and  face  whatever  was 
in  store  for  her. 

What  she  found  was  rather  terrifying  at  first,  but  when 
she  summoned  nerve  enough  to  turn  on  the  light,  she  saw 
two  swaddled  figures  squirming  to  be  free.  Madame 
Morin  had  vanished.  With  the  help  of  Nora,  who  came 
out  of  her  state  of  coma  when  the  facts  were  made  ob- 
vious, she  liberated  the  two  men  and  questioned  eagerly. 

"W-why  didn't  you — come  before?"  was  Quinlevin's 
reply.  He  was  not  pleasant  to  look  at. 

"I  was  frightened  at  the  sounds.  I  ran  away.  What 
has  happened?'* 

"Isn't  it  obvious?"  mumbled  the  Irishman,  spitting  out 
a  fragment  of  the  cotton  towel  from  his  dry  throat. 

"Jim  Horton!"  gasped  Moira. 

"The  same — damn  him." 

"And  Madame?" 

"Need  you  guess?"  he  sneered.  "They're  well  on  the 
road  to  Paris  by  now." 

"Thank  God,"  said  Moira  fervently. 

He  glanced  at  her  but  said  nothing.     His  feelings  were 

too  deep  for  words. 

***** 

But  the  day  following,  Moira  was  to  learn  her  depen- 
dence upon  him.  He  took  little  pains  to  conceal  the 
change  of  his  feelings  towards  her,  the  suddenness  of 
which  proclaimed  only  too  insistently  the  fact  that  his 
years  of  kindness  were  only  the  device  Jim  Horton  had 
proved  them  to  be.  On  the  way  back  to  Paris  he  was  for 
the  most  part  silent  and  morose,  remaining  much  of  the 
time  with  the  abominable  Tricot,  leaving  Moira  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  her  old  nurse,  who  now  shared  with  her 
the  Irishman's  displeasure.  It  was  indeed  a  sisterhood 
of  consolation  and  she  saw  that  with  the  failure  of  the 
great  plan,  Nora  was  much  chastened  by  her  experience, 
311 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

for  she  sat  and  walled  in  a  most  discomfiting  manner,  con- 
fessing1 at  last  her  share  in  the  conspiracy  and  throwing 
herself  upon  Moira's  mercy. 

Moira  was  sorry  for  the  woman  who  had  brought  her 
safely  through  her  baby  diseases  and  acted  as  guide, 
counselor  and  friend  until  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  away 
to  boarding  school.  And  so,  mingled  with  the  contempt 
that  Moira  felt  for  her,  there  was  a  little  pity  too,  and 
a  leaven  of  the  old  affection.  In  those  moments  of  rap- 
prochement and  confession,  Moira  learned  in  astonish- 
ment the  secret  of  her  birth.  Jim  Horton  had  not  been 
mistaken.  She  w.°.s  not  the  daughter  of  Barry  Quinlevin, 
but  his  niece,  posthumous  daughter  of  his  younger 
brother,  whose  widow  had  died  in  childbirth.  Barry  Quin- 
levin's  own  wife,  an  invalid  and  bedridden,  had  acquiesced 
in  the  plan  of  adopting  the  daughter  of  her  sister-in-law, 
but  had  not  known  in  the  few  years  before  her  own  death 
of  the  deception  that  was  to  be  practiced  upon  Monsieur 
de  Vautrin.  The  community  in  which  the  families  lived 
was  sparsely  settled,  the  neighbors  ignorant  and  illiter- 
ate. If  Monsieur  de  Vautrin  had  taken  pains  to  make 
inquiries  at  this  time  he  must  surely  have  discovered  the 
ruse,  but  he  had  apparently  taken  all  things  told  him 
for  granted,  or  was  too  enwrapped  in  his  own  selfish  pur- 
suits to  give  the  case  attention.  So  long  as  he  was  Aeft  to 
the  enjoyment  of  his  fortune  by  the  paying  of  the  tribute 
Quinlevin  demanded,  he  was  satisfied.  And  so  Quinlevin 
managed  things  in  his  own  way,  paying  Nora  for  her 
silence  and  keeping  Moira  in  ignorance  as  to  the  source 
of  their  income. 

If  Quinlevin  guessed  the  nature  of  the  conversation  that 
passed  between  the  two  women  upon  the  train  he  gave  no 
sign  of  it,  but  when  they  reached  Paris  and  returned  to 
the  studio,  he  seemed  to  experience  a  change  of  heart 
toward  Moira,  did  what  he  could  to  restore  the  breach  in 
312 


ESCAPE 

their  old  relations,  admitting  the  truth  of  Nora's  confes- 
sion and  shrugging  off  his  failure  as  a  matter  that  was 
ended.  Apparently  taking  Moira's  forgiveness  for 
granted,  he  treated  her,  in  their  new  relation  of  uncle 
and  niece,  with  marked  consideration,  and  planned  in  his 
grandiose  way  for  the  future.  He  seemed  to  have  plenty 
of  money  and  spent  it  upon  her  generously,  but  he  did 
not  leave  her  for  a  moment.  And  when  he  proposed  a 
trip  to  Fontainebleau,  a  spot  which  in  former  years  she 
had  loved  to  visit,  he  asked  her  to  accompany  him.  Her 
reasons  for  acquiescence  were  logical  enough.  Until  she 
decided  upon  a  definite  plan  of  separation  from  him,  she 
thought  it  wisest  to  assume  an  attitude  of  forbearance. 
She  wanted  to  go  away  somewhere  where  she  could  think 
and  she  wanted  to  hide  herself  where  Jim  Horton  couldn't 
find  her.  For  she  was  sure  that  he  would  not  be  content 
to  let  their  affair  remain  as  she  had  desired  it.  He  would 
come  pleading  with  her  and  then — God  knows  what  she 
would  do.  Alone,  helpless — she  was  afraid — of  herself. 

The  little  inn  in  the  Forest  where  they  stopped  was  not 
far  from  the  house  of  some  friends  of  Moira's,  and  thither 
if  the  opportunity  offered,  she  could  go  for  sanctuary. 
But  here  again  she  felt  the  constant  supervision  of  her 
indomitable  foster-father  and  uncle.  He  recovered  some 
of  his  old  spirits  and  his  old  affection  as  he  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  obliterate  from  her  memory  the  last  few  weeks 
which  had  been  so  disastrous  to  them  both.  But  she  ac- 
cepted these  marks  of  his  regeneration  with  reserve,  en- 
joying the  rest  and  recuperation  and  trying  her  best  to 
forget  the  man  she  loved,  praying  for  strength  and  guid- 
ance and  planning  the  struggle  for  existence  which  must 
begin  when  this  brief  interlude  came  to  an  end.  And  so 
in  a  few  days  she  lulled  him  into  a  sense  of  security  and 
convinced  him  of  her  spirit  of  resignation. 

She  wandered  off  alone  into  the  forest,  and  sometimes 
313 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

did  not  see  him  for  hours  at  a  time,  but  she  did  not  at- 
tempt escape.  She  was  thinking  deeply.  She  was  still 
afraid  that  an  escape  from  Quinlevin  meant  the  other — 
the  greater  danger  to  her  soul. 

It  was  upon  her  return  from  one  of  her  solitary  pil- 
grimages through  the  dripping  woods  (  for  the  early  morn 
had  been  foggy),  that  she  learned  that  Barry  Quinlevin 
was  still  in  bed.  She  smiled  as  she  thought  how  easily 
her  acquiescence  had  disarmed  him.  But  when  she  sent 
up  a  message  that  she  had  returned  he  sent  down  word 
that  he  would  join  her  at  dejeuner.  Something  of  the 
old  attraction  toward  him  still  remained  in  spite  of  her 
knowledge  of  his  villainy.  She  had  not  yet  been  able  to 
obliterate  from  her  mind  the  many  years  of  his  encour- 
agement in  her  work,  his  gentleness  and  the  many  marks 
of  affection.  In  his  strange  way  he  .loved  her,  and  the 
fact  that  she  now  felt  contempt  for  him  did  not  disguise 
the  fact  that  she  felt  a  little  pity  too.  But  she  knew 
that  she  must  decide  very  soon  what  she  would  do.  There 
were  so  many  years  to  set  in  the  balance  against  the 
present.  Rogue?  Yes.  But  full  of  consideration  and 
a  lively  appreciation  of  the  creature  that  he  had  made 
her.  To  cut  him  out  of  her  life — root  and  branch — 
much  as  she  had  learned  to  despise  him,  was  not  easy.  But 
she  must  do  it — for  her  own  self-respect — to-morrow — 
the  next  day.  .  .  . 

As  she  thought  of  her  problems  she  sank  into  an  arm 
chair  by  the  fire  and  picked  up  a  copy  of  a  morning  paper, 
which  a  new  visitor  had  just  brought  in  from  the  city.  It 
was  part  of  Moira's  purpose  in  hiding  herself  from  the 
world  to  hide  also  the  world  from  herself.  But  she  picked 
up  the  Matin  and  in  a  moment  was  absorbed  in  the  ac- 
count of  the  projected  Peace  Conference. 

But  as  she  turned  the  page,  her  glance  fell  upon  a  fa- 
miliar name — many  familiar  names,  and  in  a  moment,  her 
314 


ESCAPE 

eyes  starting  from  her  head,  she  read  the  dreadful  head- 
lines : 

"MURDER  IN  A  STUDIO  IN  THE  QUARTIER. 
Captain  Horton,  U.  S.  A.,  killed  under  strange  circum- 
stances." 

Then  the  news  which  followed,  describing  briefly  (for 
space  was  valuable)  the  known  facts  regarding  the  mys- 
tery, the  arrest  of  an  American,  James  Horton,  and  a 
French  woman,  Piquette  Morin,  pending  a  further  in- 
vestigation of  the  mysterious  crime.  Apparently  all  the 
facts  in  the  possession  of  the  police  were  given,  which, 
unless  some  other  details  of  the  mystery  were  discovered, 
pointed  the  finger  of  suspicion  at  the  American,  who  was 
the  twin  brother  of  the  dead  man. 

Moira  read  with  growing  horror  the  familiar  address, 
the  names  of  Madame  Toupin  and  the  other  tenants,  her 
own  name  and  Barry  Quinlevin's,  whose  absence  had  added 
to  the  mystery.  The  type  danced  before  her  eyes  like  the 
shifting  colors  in  a  kaleidoscope  and  then  became  merged 
and  incomprehensible.  Was  she  dreaming?  With  an  ef- 
fort, she  focused  again  upon  the  damnable  page,  aware 
of  this  new  crisis  that  had  sought  her  out  from  the  depths 
of  her  retreat. 

Harry — dead !  murdered !  What  had  he  been 

doing  at  the  studio  ?  There  must  be  some  mistake.  Harry 
was  at  camp  a  hundred  miles  away —  And  Jim — Jim  Hor- 
ton— his  murderer.  The  thing  was  impossible!  .  .  . 

She  got  up,  paper  in  hand,  and  scarcely  aware  of  what 
she  was  doing,  went  to  her  room  and  quickly  put  on  her 
hat  and  coat,  coming  down  stairs  a  few  moments  later 
and  taking  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  Railroad  Sta- 
tion. She  had  no  definite  plan  except  to  escape  her  uncle 
and  get  to  Paris  as  quickly  as  possible.  But  she  was 
aware  that  some  instinct  was  guiding  her.  She  inquired 
315 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

of  the  Station  Agent  when  the  Paris  train  was  due.  She 
was  lucky.  There  would  be  a  train  in  half  an  hour.  She 
bought  a  ticket  out  of  the  slender  means  in  her  possession 
and  waited,  going  over  and  over  in  her  mind  the  terrible 
phrases  which  seemed  already  to  have  burned  themselves 
indelibly  upon  her  memory.  The  motive  for  tho  crime? 
There  Deemed  to  be  none — "except  that  the  two  brothers 
had  not  been  friendly."  Motive !  Harry — her  husband — 

and  Jim !  Holy  Virgin!  She  leaned  against  a  tree 

by  the  roadside  and  wordlessly  prayed.  Not  that  mo- 
tive— not  that!  And  Jim  Horton — whatever  the  things 
he  had  suffered  through  Harry,  his  own  misplaced  gal- 
lantry, and  through  her,  he  was  not  the  man  who  could 
have  done  this  thing.  When  she  raised  her  head,  listen- 
ing for  the  sounds  of  the  train,  a  smile  was  on  her  lips,  a 
new  smile  of  confidence  and  faith.  She  had  tried  him. 
She  knew  the  kind  of  man  he  was.  He  could  fight,  in  the 
open,  as  a  brave  man  should,  but  not  in  the  dark,  not 
with  a  dastardly  blow  for  his  own  brother  in  the  dark. 

When  the  train  came  in  she  was  calm  again  and  re- 
solved. Whatever  skill,  whatever  intelligence  she  had,  was 
to  be  dedicated  to  solving  this  mystery,  and  clearing  Jim 
Horton  of  all  complicity  in  the  murder.  Her  name  was 
mentioned.  The  police  required  her  presence.  She  would 
go  to  them  and  tell  her  whole  story,  neglecting  nothing, 
whatever  it  cost  her. 

She  stared  at  the  passing  scenery  with  eyes  that  saw 
nothing.  But  there  was  a  frown  at  her  brows  and  her 
lips  were  drawn  together  in  a  firm  line.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  see  with  an  inner  vision,  to  turn  over  one  by  one 
the  events  of  the  last  few  weeks  and  the  motives  of  all 
those  concerned  in  them.  The  police  did  not  know  who 
had  committed  this  crime  if  Jim  Horton  were  innocent. 
The  circumstances  were  such  as  to  preclude  the  pos- 
sibility of  any  one  escaping  from  the  room.  And  yet  some 
316 


ESCAPE 

one  must  have  been  there  and  some  one,  somehow,  must 
have  escaped. 

Out  of  her  own  knowledge  emerged  a  motive  for  a 
murder — not  of  Harry,  but  of  his  brother — a  motive  that 
had  already  been  the  cause  of  two  abortive  attempts  upon 
his  life.  Somehow  this  thought  emerged  with  photo- 
graphic distinctness  from  the  others,  becoming  at  each 
moment  more  definite  and  more  full  of  sinister  suggestion. 
But  a  life,  perhaps  two  lives,  one  of  them  Jim  Horton's, 
hung  upon  the  keenness  of  her  vision  and  intelligence.  If 
Monsieur  Matthieu,  the  Commissaire,  whose  name  had 
been  given  in  the  Matin,  was  balked  in  getting  at  the 
truth,  she  would  help  him.  There  were  many  things  he 
did  not  know,  many  things  that  she  could  tell  him,  such 
as  would  perhaps  open  new  vistas  for  investigation. 

Quite  calmly  now  she  took  out  the  paper  and  re-read 
the  details,  her  imagination  catching  at  neglected  clues, 
her  instinct  groping,  and  her  horror  grew — not  at  the 
thought  of  Jim  in  his  prison,  but  of  other  suspicions  that 
rose  from  every  known  fact  and  confronted  her — pointing 
accusing  fingers. 

She  passed  between  the  white  columns  of  the  entrance 
to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  through  the  iron  and  gilt  barrier 
and  then  paused,  but  not  in  any  fear,  for  her  mind  was 
made  up  and  her  courage  had  come  back  to  her  with  a 
rush  that  put  to  shame  her  days  of  uncertainty.  So  she 
approached  one  of  the  palace  guards  and  asked  to  be 
shown  to  the  office  of  the  Prefet.  The  Prefet,  she  was  in- 
formed, was  not  in  the  building.  Would  any  one  else  do? 
Was  it  upon  a  matter  connected  with  the  administration 
of  justice?  She  replied  promptly  that  she  came  upon  a 
matter  in  connection  with  the  murder  mystery  in  the 
studio  at  No.  7  Rue  de  Tavennes  and  the  man  pricked  up 
his  ears,  conducting  her  promptly  up  a  long  flight  of 
stone  steps  to  the  left,  where  he  told  her  she  would  find 
317 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

the  Juge  d' 'Instruction.  And  when  in  reply  to  his  ques- 
tion as  to  what  name  he  should  announce,  she  told  him 
that  she  was  Madame  Horton,  his  interest  and  activity 
were  intense.  With  a  word  to  the  greffier  who  stood  near, 
he  disappeared  through  a  door  and  in  a  moment  returned 
with  two  gentlemen  who  hurried  forward  to  meet  her,  in- 
troducing themselves  as  Monsieur  Simon,  the  Juge  d'ln- 
struction,  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  investigation,  and 
Monsieur  Matthieu,  the  Commissaire  de  Police  for  the 
District  in  which  the  crime  had  been  committed. 

She  followed  them  through  the  door  from  which  they 
had  emerged  and  answering  their  questions  told  her  story 
without  hesitation,  from  the  moment  of  her  visit  to  Jim 
Horton  at  the  hospital  at  Neuilly  until  she  had  read  in 
the  morning  paper  of  the  crime. 

"I  came,  Messieurs,  because  it  was  my  duty  to  aid  you 
in  clearing  up  this  mystery,  and  because  I  know  that  what- 
ever the  evidence  you  hold  against  him,  Monsieur  Horton 
could  never  have  been  guilty  of  this  crime." 

Monsieur  Simon  wagged  his  head  sagely  and  plucked 
with  slender  white  fingers  at  his  dark  beard. 

"We  are  greatly  indebted  to  you,  Madame.  Our  agents 
have  been  looking  for  you.  No  doubt  they  would  have 
found  you  in  time,  but  it  was  wiser  for  you  to  come — much 
wiser.  Your  story  is  interesting  and  may  do  much  to 
help  Monsieur  Matthieu  in  his  investigation,  but " 

"But  you  must  admit,  Madame,"  broke  in  the  practical 
Commissaire,  who  had  a  reputation  at  stake,  "that  in- 
stead of  tending  to  clear  Monsieur  Horton  of  suspicion, 
you  have  only  added  one  more  thread  to  the  net  that  al- 
ready enmeshes  him." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Monsieur?" 

"His  love  for  you — his  dislike  for  your  husband " 

Moira  flushed  painfully.  "I  have  told  you  the  truth 
of  this  matter  because  I  believe  that  only  by  knowing  the 
318 


ESCAPE 

whole  truth  will  you  be  able  to  solve  this  mystery.  If 
Monsieur  Horton  tells  you  that  the  studio  was  empty,  he 
tells  you  what  he  believes  to  be  the  truth.  Why,  other- 
wise, would  he  lie  about  a  situation  which  must  surely 
condemn  him?" 

"We  have  thought  of  all  that,  Madame,"  said  Monsieur 
Simon,  "and  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  there  are  several 
points  in  his  testimony  which  are  very  puzzling.  We 
have  only  finished  his  examination  and  that  of  Ma- 
dame Morin,  which  have  lasted  the  greater  part  of  the 
morning.  Both  he  and  Madame  Morin  have  repeated 
without  the  slightest  divergence  the  testimony  taken  in  the 
preliminary  examination  at  the  scene  of  the  crime.  I  am 
glad  to  say  also  that  their  statements  confirm  in  a  gen- 
eral way  your  own  in  regard  to  what  has  happened  in  the 
affair  of  the  Due  de  Vautrin.  The  entire  department  of 
Police  is  now  upon  a  search  for  Monsieur  Barry  Quin- 
levin  and  the  man  named  Tricot,  who  will,  of  course,  be 
given  the  opportunity  to  explain  where  they  were  last 
night  at  eight  o'clock.  An  agent  goes  at  once  to  Fon- 
tainebleau.  But  that  does  not  exonerate  Monsieur  Hor- 
ton or  Madame  Morin.  A  man  has  been  killed  in  a  room 
from  which  the  murderer  could  not  have  emerged  without 
detection.  The  door  to  the  sleeping  apartments  was 
locked,  the  key  on  the  outside,  the  window  was  sixty  feet 
from  the  stone  flagging  below.  The  window  and  wall  were 
carefully  studied  this  morning  after  daybreak.  The  mur- 
derer could  not  have  climbed  down.  It  is  impossible. 
Monsieur  Horton  admits  that  he  did  not  escape  by  the 
stair.  How  then  did  he  escape?  The  doors  have  been 
guarded.  He  is  not  there  now  nor  did  Monsieur  Horton 
discover  him  either  before  or  after  the  murder " 

"And  yet  he  was  there,  Monsieur  Simon "  said 

Moira,  her  voice  gathering  strength  and  clearness  from 

the  depth  of  her  faith  and  conviction.     "He  was  there, 

319 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  she  repeated,  "all  the  time. 
Nothing  else  is  possible." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  tapped  his  eyeglasses  upon  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

"I  should  be  very  willing  to  believe  you,  Madame,"  he 
said,  with  polite  scepticism,  "had  I  not  ocular  demonstra- 
tion that  there  could  have  been  no  one  in  the  room  at 
any  moment  between  the  arrival  of  Monsieur  Horton  and 
Madame  Morin  and  the  alarm  given  by  Monsieur  Horton 
himself.  I  have  not  yet  exhausted  every  avenue  of  in- 
vestigation, but  I  need  not  conceal  from  you  the  extreme 
danger  of  the  position  in  which  Monsieur  Horton  finds 
himself.  We  have  a  motive  for  the  crime.  Even  you, 
Madame,  have  only  added  testimony  as  to  that.  With 
his  brother  dead,  there  was  no  obstacle  to  your  unfortu- 
nate affection " 

"Monsieur !"  Moira  had  drawn  back  from  him  in 

dismay,  her  face  blanched  again. 

"If  I  seem  cruel,  I  only  speak  with  the  cold  logic  of  the 
professional  analyst  of  human  motives.  The  fact  that 
you  are  a  Catholic  and  opposed  to  divorce  only  provides 
another  reason  why  your  husband  should  be  removed  from 
the  path  of  Monsieur  Horton " 

Everything  that  Moira  had  said  seemed  to  be  weaving 
more  tightly  the  skein  of  evidence  around  the  man  she 
Ipved.  And  this  thinking  machine  in  the  eyeglasses, 
grasped  only  at  the  threads  that  seemed  to  incriminate 
him.  And  what  of  the  other  evidence  that  she  had  pre- 
sented— would  they  disregard  that?  She  was  trying  to 
think  clearly,  connectedly,  and  presently  managed  to  put 
her  thoughts  into  words. 

"Have  you  discovered  how  or  why  Monsieur  Jim  Hor- 
ton happened  to  be  at  the  studio  and  why  if  he  was  bent 
upon  the  murder  of  his  own  brother  he  took  Madame 

Morin  as  a  witness " 

320 


ESCAPE 

"Or  accessory "  put  in  Monsieur  Matthieu  sharply. 

"That  is  absurd "  broke  :n  Moira  with  some  spirit, 

"and  you  know  it." 

Monsieur  Simon  nodded  approval. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  made  that  point,  Madame.  It  is 
our  trade  to  make  our  witnesses  uncomfortable  that 
they  may  controvert  themselves.  But  you  have  probed 
quite  straight.  And  instead  of  answering  your  question, 
permit  me  to  ask  you  another.  Did  you  send  a  Petit 
Bleu  to  Monsieur  Horton  requesting  him  to  come  to  your 
studio  last  night  at  eight  o'clock?" 

The  expression  upon  Moira's  face  showed  so  genuine 
an  astonishment  that  there  could  be  no  doubting  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  reply. 

"I?  No,  Monsieur  Simon.  I  was  at  Fontainebleau. 
Why  should  I  ask  him  to  come  to  the  studio  when  I  was 
not  there?" 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances  of  new  interest. 

"Both  Monsieur  Horton  and  Madame  Morin  testify 
that  Monsieur  Horton  received  such  a  message." 

Moira  started  forward  in  her  chair. 

"What  did  that  message  say,  Messieurs?" 

Monsieur  Simon  took  the  blue  slip  from  a  packet  of 
papers  and  laid  it  before  her.  With  eyes  dilated,  she  read 
the  message  that  was  signed  with  her  name.  Then  for  a 
moment  frowned  deeply,  staring  at  this  confirmation  of 
her  suspicion. 

"What  do  you  think,  Madame?"  asked  Simon. 

Moira  was  silent  for  a  moment,  struggling  for  the  mas- 
tery of  her  emotions.  And  then  in  a  suppressed  tone, 
barely  audible, 

"It  is  as  I  supposed,  Messieurs.  Monsieur  Jim  Horton 
was  lured  to  the  studio  by  this  message  and — my  husband 
— was  killed  by  mistake  in  his  stead." 

"By  whom,  Madame?"  asked  the  Judge  quickly. 
321 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

Moira  made  a  nervous  gesture  of  recantation. 

"I — I  do  not  know.  It  is  horrible  to  suspect  without 
further  proof.  I — I  cannot  say." 

"Monsieur  Quinlevin?" 

"That's  impossible.    He  was  at  Fontainebleau." 

"Then  who ?" 

"That's  for  you  to  find  out.  I  did  not  come  to  accuse — 
but  to  liberate.  Search !  Find !  Let  their  own  words 
convict  them,"  she  said  wildly.  "I  cannot.  I  only  know 
that  Monsieur  Horton  did  not  kill  my  husband.  That  is 
impossible." 

Monsieur  Matthieu,  who  had  listened  for  most  of  the 
while  in  silence,  now  rose  and  took  a  pace  or  two  before 
her,  tapping  his  glasses  quickly  against  his  palm. 

"Madame  Horton,  let  us  confine  ourselves  to  the  physi- 
cal evidence  that  confronts  us.  No  one  could  have  been 
in  that  studio  between  the  moment  when  Monsieur  Jim, 
Horton  and  Madame  Morin  say  they  left  it  until  they 
say  they  returned  some  moments  later.  That  is  the  fact. 
I  know.  It  is  my  business  to  neglect  nothing.  I  have 
neglected  nothing.  Therefore  I  tell  you  that  no  matter 
whom  you  suspect  to  have  committed  this  murder,  no 
matter  whom  Monsieur  Simon  or  I  might  believe  to  have 
had  a  motive  in  committing  it,  the  fact  remains  that  he 
could  not  have  entered  the  studio  or  departed  from  it 
during  the  short  period  in  which  this  crime  was  com- 
mitted. And  I  say  to  you  now  that  no  human  being  ex- 
cept Monsieur  Horton  could  have  been  present  to  com- 
mit this  murder." 

"And  yet,"  said  Moira  desperately,  "a  human  being 
other  than  Monsieur  Horton  killed  my  husband." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  shrugged  and  smiled. 

"You  have  not  investigated  as  I  have  done,  Madame," 
he  said. 

"No,  Monsieur.     But  I  am  right,"  she  said  firmly. 
322 


ESCAPE 

"You  are  persistent." 

"It  is  my  duty  to  find  the  truth  of  this  matter." 

"And  mine — but  not  to  achieve  the  impossible " 

Monsieur  Simon,  whose  nervous  fingers  had  been  caress- 
ing his  dark  beard,  while  his  small  deep-set  eyes  followed 
the  changing  emotions  in  Moira's  troubled  face,  now  broke 
into  the  discussion  with  some  spirit. 

"It  is  not  safe,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,  to  disregard 
the  intuitions  of  a  woman.  In  this  case,  since  we  have 
weighed  all  immediate  evidence,  perhaps  it  would  be  wise 
to  give  Madame  Horton  the  opportunity  of  confirming  to 
her  own  satisfaction  the  results  of  your  investigation." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  smiled  and  shrugged  again. 

"Volontiers,  Monsieur,  if  you  think  it  worth  while." 

"At  least  it  can  do  no  harm.  Madame  Horton  is  fa- 
miliar with  her  own  studio.  Perhaps  she  may  notice 
something  that  has  escaped  your  eye." 

"As  you  please." 

"It  is  that  which  you  desire,  Madame?"  asked  the 
Judge. 

"Oh,  thanks,  Monsieur,"  uttered  Moira  gratefully.  "I 
could  not  be  satisfied,  even  after  the  skill  of  Monsieur  lj 
Commissaire,  unless  I  had  probed  this  mystery  with  my 
own  eyes." 

"Come,  then,  Madame.  There  is  still  time.  We  shall 
go  at  once." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  CLUE 

THE  body  of  Harry  Horton  had  been  removed  from 
the  studio  and  this  it  seemed  made  Moira's  task 
less  painful.  But  she  was  now  armed  with  a  des- 
perate courage  which  even  the  sight  of  Harry's  mangled 
body  would  not  have  dismayed.  And  the  thought  that 
her  keenness  of  perception,  her  intelligence,  her  woman's 
instinct  were  the  only  weapons  she  had  with  which  to  com- 
bat the  scepticism  of  this  skillful  detective  and  save  Jim 
Horton  from  the  perils  of  impending  indictment  for  mur- 
der, gave  her  a  sense  of  responsibility  which  keyed  her 
faculties  to  their  utmost  and  drove  from  her  heart  all 
terrors  of  her  situation.  She  must  succeed  where  Monsieur 
Matthieu  had  failed.  Instinct  would  guide  her,  instinct 
and  faith.  Monsieur  Matthieu,  if  not  her  enemy,  was 
prejudiced  in  favor  of  a  pre-conceived  idea  which  every 
bit  of  evidence  justified,  and  yet  there  must  be  other  evi- 
dence— clues  neglected,  trifles  overlooked — and  she  must 
find  them  out. 

The  burden  of  the  testimony  against  Jim  Horton  would 
fall  if  she  could  prove  it  physically  possible  for  some  one 
to  have  been  in  the  studio  while  Jim  Horton  and  Piquette 
had  waited  outside.  This  was  her  object — nothing  else 
seemed  to  matter. 

On  the  way  to  the  Rue  de  Tavennes  in  a  cab  Monsieur 
Simon  replied  politely  to  her  questions,  giving  her  all  the 
information  she  desired,  while  Monsieur  Matthieu  sat  op- 
posite. How  she  hated  the  man!  His  smile  patronized, 
his  reddish  hair  inflamed  her.  She  could  see  that  in  his 
324 


THE  CLUE 


mind  Jim  Horton  was  already  convicted.  But  when  they 
reached  the  porte  cochere  of  Madame  Toupin,  Monsieur 
Simon  handed  her  gravely  down  and  Monsieur  Matthieu 
led  the  way  up  the  stair  to  the  studio  where  a  policeman 
was  still  on  guard.  Moira  followed  the  Commissaire 
closely  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the 
room  while  Monsieur  Matthieu  unbent  enough  to  show 
her  where  the  body  lay  and  to  indicate  the  locked  door 
and  the  chair  which  had  been  overturned.  To  Moira 
these  matters  were  already  unimportant,  since  she  saw 
no  reason  to  deny  the  testimony  of  the  many  witnesses 
on  these  points.  She  entered  the  room  slowly,  with  a 
feeling  of  some  awe,  and  for  a  moment  stood  by  the  fire- 
place, glancing  from  one  object  to  the  other,  thinking 
deeply.  A  dark  stain  on  the  rug,  just  before  her,  gave 
her  a  tremor,  but  she  recovered  herself  immediately  and 
walked  slowly  around  the  room,  examining  each  object 
as  though  she  had  never  seen  it  before. 

"Does  Madame  wish  to  look  in  the  apartment  or  the 
kitchenette?"  she  heard  Monsieur  Matthieu's  voice  ask- 
ing. 

But  she  shook  her  head.  The  answer  to  the  mystery 
lay  here — in  this  very  room.  She  was  already  satisfied 
as  to  that. 

"Is  this  room  in  the  precise  condition  in  which  it  was 
found  when  the  police  first  arrived?"  she  asked  coolly. 

"Yes,  Madame,  except  for  the  removal  of  the  body, 
nothing  has  been  disturbed." 

"You  are  sure  of  this?" 

"I  am,  Madame.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  a  police- 
man has  been  always  on  guard." 

"And  you  yourself,  Monsieur, — you  have  moved  no 
object — no  drapery — no  chair?" 

"No,  Madame.     Nothing.     I  climbed  upon  the  couch 
to  look  out  of  the  window.    That  is  all." 
325 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  nodded  and  passed  around  the  lay  figure  which 
she  was  regarding  with  a  new  interest. 

"And  the  gray  drapery  on  the  shoulder  of  the  lay 
figure — you  say  it  has  not  been  touched?" 

Monsieur  Matthieu  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"I  examined  the  figure  carefully,  Madame.  I  may  have 
raised  the  drapery — but  I  restored  it  as  I  found  it." 

"Then  things  are  not  precisely  as  they  were,"  she  said 
keenly. 

"No,  Madame.  Not  the  gray  drapery,"  said  Matthieu 
amusedly. 

"You  did  not  touch  the  bolero  jacket?" 

"No,  Madame." 

"Nor  the  skirt?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  said  the  Commissaire. 

She  removed  the  hat  from  the  head  of  papier  mache 
and  examined  it  minutely,  then  took  off  the  head  itself 
and  stared  into  the  painted  eyes  as  though  asking  the 
mute  familiar  lips  a  question.  And  then  suddenly,  as  the 
Commissaire  and  Monsieur  Simon  watched  curiously, 

"It  is  a  pity  that  you  moved  the  draperies,  Monsieur 
Matthieu,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Why,  Madame?" 

"Because  you  have  disturbed  the  dust." 

"I  can't  understand  why " 

"I  was  away  for  a  week.  Some  dust  would  have  ac- 
cumulated, upon  the  draperies — the  figure  has  been 
touched.  It  is  not  as  I  left  it." 

"Of  course,  Madame,  I  made  a  thorough  investiga- 
tion  " 

"And  what  did  you  learn  from  it?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Monsieur  Matthieu  glanced  at  her  once  and  then 
shrugged. 

"Nothing,  Madame.     A  lay  figure  is  a  lay  figure." 

"True,"  said  Moira  carelessly,  but  the  Commissaire 
326 


THE  CLUE 


found  himself  regarding  her  with  a  new  appraising  eye. 
What  did  she  mean  by  this  question? 

But  she  moved  past  him  quickly  as  though  with  a 
definite  purpose,  and  approached  the  north  window. 

"Which  of  these  sashes  was  unlocked,  Monsieur?" 

"The  one  to  the  right,  Madame." 

"I  see.    You  say  it  was  closed  but  not  fastened?" 

"That  is  correct." 

"That  is  strange." 

"Why,  Madame?" 

"Because  I  fastened  it  with  great  care  before  I  left 
for  Fontainebleau." 

"You  are  sure  of  this?" 

"Positive.    It  has  an  awkward  catch.     You  see?" 

And  she  demonstrated  how  easily  it  came  unlatched 
unless  pressed  firmly  down. 

Monsieur  Matthieu  came  forward  smiling. 

"You  only  indicate,  Madame,  that  it  will  slip  easily  out 
of  'place." 

Moira  met  his  gaze  firmly. 

"Try  to  make  it  slip,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "since  I 
have  fastened  it." 

He  tried  by  tapping — by  shaking  the  window,  but  the 
catch  held. 

"It  is  a  matter  of  little  moment,"  he  muttered,  "since 
it  would  be  impossible  for  the  murderer  to  have  escaped 
by  this  way." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Moira. 

But  while  she  spoke  she  unlocked  the  catch,  then  slipped 
it  insecurely  into  place  and  stood  aside,  studying  it  keenly. 

"What  is  it  that  interests  you,  Madame?"  asked  the 
Juge  d*  Instruction. 

"The  catch,  Monsieur,"  she  replied  quietly.  "It  is  an 
old  one.  The  edges  are  worn  quite  smooth."  And  just 
327 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

then  as  a  breeze  came  from  without,  the  French  window 
swung  gently  open. 

Monsieur  Matthieu  started  back  a  pace  and  glanced  at 
Monsieur  Simon. 

"You  found  this  window  open,  Monsieur  le  Commis- 
saire,"  said  the  Judge. 

"That  is  true,"  replied  the  Commissaire  confidently, 
"but  it  is  possible  that  Monsieur  Horton  may  have  dis- 
turbed it  when  he  examined  it  before  the  murder." 

Moira  turned  quickly. 

"The  window  was  securely  locked.  I  left  it  so.  Mon- 
sieur Horton  found  it  so.  You  make  nothing  of  this, 
either,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire?" 

Monsieur  Matthieu  shook  his  head  and  pointed  toward 
the  opening. 

"My  answer  to  your  questions,  Madame,  is  yonder," 
he  said  with  a  grin.  "Explain  to  me  how  any  living  man 
could  have  descended  from  that  window  and  I  will  sur- 
render to  you  my  position  and  my  reputation  as  Com- 
missaire de  Police.'" 

Moira  made  no  reply.  She  had  climbed  upon  the  couch 
and  was  already  half  out  of  the  window,  examining  the 
broad  ledge  outside,  while  Monsieur  Simon,  somewhat 
alarmed  lest  she  should  lose  her  balance,  had  caught  her 
by  the  skirt  of  her  dress. 

"Be  careful,  Madame,"  he  warned,  "you  may  fall." 

"Have  no  fear,  Monsieur  le  Juge"  she  said  with  a 
smile.  But  she  had  lowered  herself  to  her  knees  upon  the 
ledge  outside  and  clinging  to  the  jamb  of  the  window  was 
carefully  examining  every  inch  of  the  sill  and  tin  gutter. 

Monsieur  Matthieu,  inside  the  room,  had  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  was  puffing  at  it  contentedly,  looking  on 
with  an  amused  tolerance  at  the  solicitude  of  Monsieur 
Simon,  who  as  he  knew  was  more  easily  swayed  than  him- 
self from  the  paths  of  his  duty  by  a  pretty  face  or  a 
328 


THE  CLUE 


well-turned  ankle.  Through  the  panes  of  glass  he  saw 
that  the  girl  had  bent  forward  at  the  edge,  her  eyes  near 
the  tin  gutter,  the  fingers  of  one  hand  touching  the  edge, 
while  Monsieur  Simon  held  her  other  arm  and  besought 
her  to  return.  This  she  did  presently,  standing  for  a 
moment  upright  in  the  open  window  and  looking  down  at 
them  intently,  a  challenge  in  her  eyes  for  the  Commis- 
saire. 

"Did  you  discover  anything,  Madame?"  he  asked  po- 
litely enough. 

Though  his  professional  manner  may  not  have  indi- 
cated it,  Monsieur  Matthieu  was  sorry  for  her.  She  had 
attempted  the  impossible.  Her  lover  was  doomed.  But 
she  was  handsome — with  the  fine  color  that  had  come  into 
her  face  from  her  exertions,  and  the  new  gleam  of  hope 
that  had  come  into  her  eyes — handsome,  but  her  effort 
was  futile,  so  futile  to  hope  to  find  clues  where  he,  Mat- 
thieu, had  failed. 

She  didn't  reply  and  accepting  the  hand  which  the  gal- 
lant Juge  d 'Instruction  offered  her,  stepped  down  to  the 
couch  and  so  to  the  floor. 

"You  see,  Madame,"  ventured  the  Commissaire  more 
kindly,  "that  it  would  be  quite  out  of  the  question  for 
the  murderer  to  have  descended  from  the  window." 

"I  have  never  thought  that  he  did,  Monsieur,"  said 
Moira  dryly. 

The  Commissaire  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  aston- 
ishment. What  was  the  meaning  of  this  sudden  assur- 
ance in  her  tone?  Could  it  be  possible  that  this  girl  had 
noted  something  that  he  had  overlooked?  That  she  had 
evolved  a  theory  out  of  some  intangible  bit  of  evidence 
that  had  escaped  him?  Impossible.  And  yet  curiously 
enough,  he  experienced  a  slight  feeling  of  uneasiness  which 
might  have  been  discomfort  had  he  not  been  so  sure  of 
himself. 

329 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"You  have  perhaps  happened  upon  something  that  has 
escaped  my  eye?"  he  asked  frankly. 

"I  do  not  know  what  your  eye  saw  or  what  it  did  not 
see,  Monsieur,"  she  said  quietly,  "but  I  have  learned 
nothing  to  make  me  change  my  opinions  as  to  this  crime." 

"I  hope  that  you  will  be  able  to  confirm  them,"  said  the 
Commissaire.  "If  there  is  anything  that  I  can  do " 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  broke  in  Moira  with  precision.  "If 
Monsieur  le  Juge  d?  Instruction  will  grant  permission," 
with  a  flash  of  her  eyes  at  Monsieur  Simon,  "I  would  be 
obliged  if  you  will  summon  for  me  Monsieur  Joubert  or 
any  others  in  the  building  who  followed  Monsieur  Horton 
up  the  stair." 

She  glanced  at  Monsieur  Simon,  who  bowed  his  head 
in  agreement. 

"By  all  means,"  said  the  Judge,  "if  Madame  has  reason 
to  believe " 

"I  ask  it,  Monsieur  le  Juge,  not  as  a  favor,  but  as  a 
necessary  step  in  the  administration  of  justice  in  this 
case." 

"It  is  little  enough.  Go,  Monsieur.  Here  are  the 
names.  Madame  Toupin  will  direct  you." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  hesitated.  He  did  not  wish  to  leave 
the  room.  Something  had  happened  to  change  the  manner 
of  this  woman.  Her  eyes  glowed — she  was  authoritative — 
inspired.  He  was  beginning  to  believe  that  after  all  ... 

"You  will  please  go  at  once,  Monsieur,"  the  voice  of 
the  Judge  was  saying.  "Madame  and  I  will  await  your 
return." 

And  so  with  a  backward  glance,  Monsieur  Matthieu 
went  out. 

"You  think  you  have  found  a  clue,  Madame?"  asked 
Monsieur  Simon  with  an  air  of  encouragement. 

"I  don't  know,  Monsieur — a  hope — perhaps  a  vain  one. 
But  you  are  friendly.     You  shall  see." 
330 


THE  CLUE 


And  crossing  quickly  in  front  of  him  she  went  directly 
to  the  lay  figure  and  examined  it  minutely. 

"This  old  skirt,  Monsieur,  as  you  will  observe,  is  fas- 
tened by  buttons  and  is  somewhat  twisted  to  one  side." 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"This  was  the  first  thing  that  attracted  my  attention. 
But  one  button  holds  it,  and  it  is  fastened  at  the  wrong 
button-hole." 

"And  what  does  that  signify?" 

"Merely  that  it  has  been  tampered  with — I  did  not 
fasten  it  in  this  way,  Monsieur,"  she  said  positively. 

"You  are  sure?"  Monsieur  Simon  was  now  as  eager 
as  she. 

"Absolutely.  I  am  a  leisurely  person.  I  have  done  all 
the  cleaning  in  this  studio  myself.  I  am  careful  in  small 
matters.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  me  to  have 
fastened  these  buttons  as  you  see  them." 

"Sapristi!    Madame — And  you  think ?" 

He  paused  as  Moira  unbuttoned  the  old  skirt  and 
slipped  it  down  while  she  moved  eagerly  around  the  par- 
tially disrobed  figure. 

"Monsieur!"  she  gasped  in  sudden  excitement  as  she 
pointed  to  the  cotton  covering  of  the  mannikin.  He 
looked  where  she  pointed  and  saw  a  stain  of  dirt  and 
dust  which  extended  the  full  length  of  the  thigh. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  asked. 

"The  lay  figure  has  been  moved  from  its  iron  brack- 
et  " 

"And  even  so,  what ?" 

But  she  had  fallen  on  her  knees  before  it  and  didn't  even 
hear  him,  for  she  suddenly  bent  forward  with  a  little 
cry  and  put  her  finger  into  a  small  tear  in  the  cotton 
cloth  on  the  outside  of  the  right  calf. 

"I  have  it,"  she  muttered  excitedly,  as  though  half  to 
331 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

herself.     "I  have  it — new — clean  on  one  side,  soiled  on  the 
other " 

"What,  Madame — what?"  asked  Simon,  catching  the 
fire  of  her  eagerness. 

"The  hole  in  the  leg,  Monsieur,"  she  cried.  "Don't  you 
see?  A  piece  torn  out  against  some  rough  surface " 

"Yes,  but " 

"And  here  is  the  cloth  that  was  torn  from  it,"  she 
gasped,  exhibiting  a  small  piece  of  cotton  cloth.  "You 
see?  It  fits  the  tear  exactly." 

Simon  took  it  from  her  hands  and  scrutinized  it  through 
his  glasses.  The  torn  piece  was  of  the  same  material 
as  the  cotton  skin  of  the  lay  figure,  soiled  upon  one  side 
and  clean  upon  the  other. 

"Where  did  you  find  this  piece  of  cotton,  Madame?" 
he  asked  in  a  suppressed  tone. 

"Outside  the  window — hanging  below  a  torn  edge  of  the 
tin  gutter,  where  it  must  have  escaped  the  eyes  of  Moi«- 
sieur  le  Commissaire" 

"Man  Dleul  Then  the  lay  figure  must  have  been  out- 
side on  the  ledge '* 

"Exactly.  Outside.  The  stain  of  dust  upon  the  leg 
shows  how  it  lay " 

"Magnifique,  Madame " 

"But  the  skirt  and  the  jacket  were  first  removed,"  she 
went  on  breathlessly.  "Isn't  it  obvious?  Otherwise  there 
would  have  been  no  stain  of  dirt  upon  the  leg.  There  is 
no  mark  of  dirt  upon  them." 

"Quick,  Madame.     The  jacket " 

And  with  his  own  hands  the  Judge  helped  her  remove 
the  Spanish  jacket,  taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  mag- 
nifying glass  with  which  he  examined  the  figure  intently. 

"By  the  armpits,  Monsieur  Simon.  It  is  there  the 
hands  would  have  caught." 

Simon  obeyed  while  Moira  lifted  the  arms. 
332 


THE  CLUE 


"There's  something,"  he  muttered  softly. 

"A  stain,"  broke  in  Moira  quickly.  "I  can  see  it  with 
the  naked  eye." 

It  was  a  faint  smudge,  of  a  brownish  color  like  rust. 

"The  print  of  a  finger?"  she  mumbled. 

"It  shall  be  analyzed.     It  looks  like " 

"The  murderer's  fingers — stained " 

"If  it  is  blood,  Madame " 

"Yes,  yes " 

"Then  the  murderer  carried  this  figure  back — after 
the  murder " 

"Exactly.     And  he " 

She  paused  and  then  was  suddenly  silent,  for  Monsieur 
Matthieu,  the  Commissaire,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the 
studio.  He  came  quickly  forward,  glancing  at  the  de- 
nuded mannikin  in  the  absurd  pose  of  gesticulation  into 
which  they  had  put  it.  It  seemed  to  be  making  a  ribald 
gesture  at  the  astonished  Commissaire. 

"You  have  left  nothing  to  the  imagination,  I  see, 
Madame."  And  then,  "You  have  discovered  something?" 
he  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Moira  briefly.  "You  have  been  able 
to  find  some  of  the  witnesses?" 

"Yes,  Madame.  The  most  important.  But  it  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  know " 

"In  a  moment,  Monsieur.  I  am  intent  upon  this  prob-» 
lem.  Perhaps  we  shall  learn  something.  It  is  Monsieur 
Joubert  that  I  wished  to  see  particularly.  He  is  a  car- 
penter and  lives  in  the  court  at  the  rear " 

"It  is  he  I  have  found,  Madame."  And  turning  aside, 
Matthieu  beckoned  toward  the  corridor,  and  Monsieur 
Joubert  entered.  He  was  well  known  to  Moira  and  saluted 
her,  his  brow  troubled. 

"Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Joubert,"  she  said,  trying  to  con- 
trol the  beating  of  her  heart  and  the  labor  of  her  breath- 
333 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

ing,  for  here  she  knew  was  to  be  the  test  of  the  worth 
of  her  discoveries.  Everything  that  she  believed,  would 
stand  or  fall  by  the  testimony  of  the  people  who  had 
followed  Jim  Horton  up  the  stair. 

"Bon  jour,  Madame  'Orton,"  said  the  carpenter  po- 
litely. 

"Where  were  you,  Monsieur,"  she  began,  "when  you 
heard  Monsieur  Horton's  cry  of  alarm?" 

"In  the  court  below,  Madame.  I  was  standing  with 
Monsieur  Lavaud,  the  pastry  cook,  at  the  angle  of  the 
wall  just  inside  the  Loge  of  Madame  Toupin " 

"And  when  you  heard  the  cries  what  did  you  do  ?"  asked 
the  girl. 

"I  waited  a  moment  in  fear  and  then  with  Monsieur 
Lavaud  went  toward  the  entrance." 

"Were  there  some  others  there?" 

"Oui,  Madame.  A  number  of  persons  came  running 
into  the  court.  They  seemed  to  spring  from  the  earth  as 
if  by  magic." 

"And  were  you  among  the  first  to  rush  up  the  stair?" 

"Oui,  Madame.  There  were  but  two  or  three  before 
me." 

"And  whom  did  you  find  on  the  second  landing?" 

"Monsieur  'Orton  and  a  lady  who  told  us  that  a  murder 
had  been  committed." 

"And  you  went  with  him  up  the  stair?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.  A  policeman  had  come  rushing  in,  and 
we  all  mounted  to  the  third  floor." 

"Was  it  dark  out  there  on  the  third  floor  landing?" 

"Not  dark,  but  dim.  The  studio  door  was  open  and 
threw  a  light  outside." 

"And  what  did  you  do  then?" 

"Some  rushed  into  the  studio.     We  were  all  greatly 
excited.    I  stood  in  the  hallway.     Some  went  to  the  small 
hall  room,  the  door  of  which  was  partly  open." 
334 


THE  CLUE 


"It  was  dark  inside  the  hall  room?" 

"Oui,  Madame— dark." 

"You  have  testified  that  one  of  the  crowd  went  into 
the  small  hall  room  and  came  out  saying  that  no  one  was 
there." 

"Non,  Madame.  No  one  was  there.  I  and  Monsieur 
Lavaud  went  into  the  room,  made  a  light  and  verified  the 
statement  of  the  man  who  had  come  out." 

Moira  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  nervously,  and 
when  she  spoke  again  her  throat  was  dry  with  uncertainty. 

"Monsieur  Joubert,  you  will  please  listen  very  care- 
fully to  my  question  and  try  to  answer  very  accurately.** 

"Oui,  Madame." 

"You  say  that  one  of  the  crowd  who  had  come  up  the 
stair  with  you  examined  the  room.  Did  you  see  him 
come  out  of  the  door?" 

"Oui,  Madame.    I  saw  him  come  out." 

She  paused  significantly,  and  then,  with  emphasis, 

"Did  you  see  him  go  in,  Monsieur  Joubert?" 

Joubert  stared  at  her  stupidly  for  a  moment,  and  Mon- 
sieur Matthieu  and  the  Judge  leaned  forward,  aware  of 
the  intent  of  the  question. 

As  the  man  did  not  reply,  it  was  the  Juge  d'lnstruction 
who  broke  the  silence  impatiently. 

"Yes,  yes,  Monsieur  Joubert,"  he  questioned  sharply, 
"did  you  see  him  go  in?" 

"The  truth — Monsieur  Joubert,"  gasped  Moira. 

Joubert  scratched  his  head  and  shuffled  his  feet  awk- 
wardly. 

"No,  Madame.    I  can't  really  say  that  I  did.'* 

"Did  any  of  the  others  see  him  go  in?" 

Here  Monsieur  Simon  broke  in  quietly.  "Pardon,  Ma- 
dame! But  that  is  a  question  the  other  witnesses  must 
answer." 

Moira  glanced  at  him  and  then  at  Monsieur  Matthieu. 
335 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Perhaps  you  can  inform  me,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire" 
she  said.  "Have  any  of  the  witnesses  who  testified  to  see- 
ing this  man  come  out  of  the  door  also  testified  to  seeing 
him  go  in?" 

"Many  persons  went  into  the  room,  Madame " 

"Later,  Monsieur,"  she  broke  in  quickly.  "Later,  after 
this  man  who  had  come  out  had  mingled  with  the  crowd 
and  gone  down  the  stair." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  started. 

"Madame !"  he  gasped. 

"Listen,  Monsieur  Joubert,"  she  went  on  earnestly, 
"and  answer  me  truthfully,  for  the  life  of  a  human  being 
hangs  on  your  replies.  Did  you  know  some  of  the  per  pie 
in  the  crowd  who  rushed  up  the  stair?" 

"As  to  that — out,  Madame,"  said  Joubert  more  easily. 
"Most  of  them  I  knew — they  are  of  the  neighborhood. 
Monsieur  Lavaud,  Monsieur  Picard  of  the  Lavoir,  Mon^ 
sieur  Gabriel  and  others " 

"But  this  man  who  came  out  of  the  door  of  the  hall 
room,"  she  insisted  clearly.  "You  had  never  seen  him 
before?" 

Joubert  shrugged. 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,  Madame,  I  think  that  is  the 
truth." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  never  saw  him  in  the  neighbor- 
hood?" 

"No,  Madame.    I  never  saw  him  in  this  neighborhood." 

Moira  gasped  in  relief,  aware  that  the  Coirvmssalre, 
from  contempt,  from  indifference,  had  been  reduced  to  the 
silence  of  consternation.  She  saw  it  in  his  face  and  in  the 
eyes  of  Monsieur  Simon,  who  stood  beside  her,  listening 
in  admiration  and  ready  to  aid  her  with  advice  or  ques- 
tion. He  was  on  her  side  now.  But  she  was  reserving  her 
strongest  stroke  for  the  last  and  she  delivered  it  with 
growing  assurance,  for  in  her  heart  all  along  she  had 
336 


THE  CLUE 


known  through  whom  and  by  whom  the  murder  must  have 
been  committed. 

"Monsieur  Joubert,"  she  asked  coolly,  "you  say  the 
light  was  dim  in  the  corridor.  Was  it  too  dark  for  you 
to  see  what  the  man  who  came  out  of  the  door  looked 
like?" 

"It  was  dim,  Madame.     But  I  remember  him  perfectly." 

"You  could  identify  him,  if  you  saw  him?" 

"I  think  so,  Madame." 

"Good.  Perhaps  I  can  describe  him  to  you,  Monsieur 
Joubert.  He  was  not  a  large  man,  he  was  smaller  than 
you,  with  broad  but  bent  shoulders,  long  arms  like  an 
ape's,  which  reached  nearly  to  his  knees,  a  thin  face,  small 
black  eyes,  a  nose  like  the  beak  of  an  eagle " 

Joubert  had  started  back  in  astonishment. 

"It  is  he,  Madame!     You  have  described  him " 

"And  when  he  walked  he  had  a  slight  limp  of  the  left 
leg " 

"A  limp,  Madame.  It  is  true,"  cried  Joubert,  "the 
very  same.  He  limped.  I  saw  it  as  he  came  forward " 

"That  will  be  all,  Monsieur  Joubert,"  said  Moira  wea- 
rily. 

And  when  the  man  had  gone  out  she  turned  to  Monsieur 
Simon  with  a  smile  of  triumph.  "Have  I  made  out  a 
case,  Monsieur  le  Juge?" 

"Parfaitement,  Madame.  But  the  murderer ?"  he 

urged. 

She  grew  grave  at  once. 

"The  man  I  have  described  is  Monsieur  Tricot." 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

"We  have  already  taken  steps.  He  will  be  found,  Ma- 
dame," said  the  Com/miss  air e.  "All  the  police  of  Paris 
are  on  his  trail." 

"I  pray  God  you  may  find  him,"  said  Moira  quietly. 

"And  even  if  we  do  not,  Madame,"  said  Monsieur  Si- 
337 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

mon,  "you  have  created  already  a  reasonable  doubt." 
And  then,  with  a  mischievous  look  toward  Monsieur  Mat- 
thieu,  "But  I  think  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if  you  took 
Monsieur  le  Commissaire  into  your  confidence." 

Monsieur  Matthieu,  aware  of  the  position  the  Juge 
d 'Instruction  had  now  taken,  was  silent,  but  still  incredu- 
lous. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  the  other  facts  upon  which  you 
base  this  testimony,"  he  said  slowly. 

Monsieur  Simon  waved  his  hand  toward  the  mannikin, 
its  frozen  gesture  now  almost  prophetic.  "Tell  Monsieur 
le  Commissaire  what  happened  in  this  room  as  you  have 
traced  it,  Madame." 

Moira  glanced  at  the  Commissaire,  who  bowed  his  head 
in  an  attitude  of  attention,  which  had  in  it  not  a  little 
of  humility. 

"The  murderer  lay  in  wait  for  Monsieur  Jim  Horton," 
said  Moira.  "There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  that. 
The  Petit  Bleu  was  the  lure,  this  studio  the  trap.  The 
affair  had  been  planned  with  skill.  The  motive  was  ven- 
geance, and  a  desire  to  prevent  certain  papers  from 
reaching  the  hands  of  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Vautrin.  This 
man  Tricot  was  already  in  the  studio  when  Monsieur 
Horton  and  Madame  Morin  arrived.  Perhaps  Monsieur 
le  Commissaire  has  already  guessed  where." 

"Go  on,  Madame,"  said  Matthieu  gravely. 

"He  had  taken  the  clothing  from  the  mannikin  and 
put  the  lay  figure  out  in  the  darkness  on  the  ledge  outside 
the  north  window.  Then  he  went  and  stood  in  the  place 
of  the  lay  figure.  He  had  put  on  the  old  skirt  and  bolero 
jacket,  and  slouch  hat,  and  about  his  shoulders  was  the 
gray  drapery.  He  had  only  to  remain  silent  and  motion- 
less. He  was  prepared  to  spring  upon  and  stab  Monsieur 
Jim  Horton  when  his  back  was  turned,  but  the  appearance 
of  Madame  Morin  disconcerted  him.  He  had  counted  on 
338 


THE  CLUE 


a  quick  death  without  an  outcry.  Madame  Morin  knew 
him.  He  did  not  dare  to  attempt  to  kill  them  both.  And 
so  he  waited." 

"Saperlotte!" 

"Monsieur  Horton  and  Madame  Morin  examined  the 
studio  in  curiosity  and  then  went  out  into  the  hall,  now 
suspicious  that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be.  Monsieur 
Tricot  did  not  dare  to  go  until  he  was  sure  that  they  had 
gone.  He  was  about  to  take  his  leave  when  he  heard  a 
man's  footsteps  upon  the  stair  and  went  back  to  his  posi- 
tion on  the  model  stand.  The  man  entered.  He  thought 
that  it  was  Monsieur  Jim  Horton  come  back  alone.  But 
it  was  not  Jim  Horton.  It  was  my  husband,  Harry  Hor- 
ton, his  twin  brother.  The  testimony  shows  that  their 
clothing  was  much  alike.  Their  faces  were  the  same. 
Tricot  saw  my  husband's  face  for  a  moment  under  the 
low  gas  light  as  he  came  in  the  door,  locking  it  behind 
him.  God  knows  why  my — my  husband  was  here.  I 
don't.  He  came  to  spend  the  night  perhaps — to  wait  for 
me." 

She  paused,  breathing  hard,  her  words  scarcely  audible. 
But  a  word  from  Monsieur  Simon  encouraged  her  again. 

"This  Tricot  is  desperate  and  very  strong.  He  sprang 
upon  my  husband  and  killed  him.  But  there  was  a  sound 
of  struggle  and  the  noise  of  a  falling  body  which  Mon- 
sieur Jim  Horton  and  his  companion  heard  from  the  door 
of  the  room  in  the  hall.  They  came  out.  And  weapon  in 
hand,  Jim  Horton,  after  several  minutes,  broke  in  the 
door.  But  by  this  time  the  murderer  had  taken  his  place 
again  as  the  lay  figure,  just  as  he  stood  when  they  had 
first  entered  the  room.  In  their  horror  at  their  discovery 
they  passed  him  by  and  rushed  down  the  stair." 

"And  then,  Madame?"  nodded  the  Commissaire. 

"He  ran  quickly  to  the  window,  outside  which  he  had 
put  my  lay  figure,  dragged  it  in  hurriedly,  dressed  it  in 
339 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

its  clothing  and  restored  it  to  its  place,  then  ran  out  and 
hid  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall  room,  intending  to  leap  out 
to  the  roof  below.  But  he  did  not  dare  it  with  his  injured 
leg,  resorting  to  the  clever  device  which  I  have  indicated 
to  you,  of  going  out  when  the  crowd  swarmed  excitedly 
up  to  the  studio  door,  and  announcing  that  no  one  was 
there.  Then,  Messieurs,  in  a  moment  he  had  mingled  with 
the  crowd  and  was  gone." 

"And  how  did  you  learn  this,  Madame?'* 

"By  a  trifle  which  even  your  experienced  eyes  had  over- 
looked. This,  Monsieur " 

And  she  produced  the  small  piece  of  torn  cotton  cloth 
from  her  pocket. 

"It  was  torn  from  the  mannikin  upon  a  projecting 
piece  of  tin  and  hung  from  the  gutter  outside.  You  have 
only  to  apply  it  to  the  leg  of  the  mannikin,  Monsieur  le 
Commissaire" 

The  bewildered  police  officer  took  the  small  object  and 
turned  it  over  in  his  fingers,  then  went  to  the  lay  figure 
while  Monsieur  Simon  showed  him  the  stains  at  the  arm 
pits  and  upon  the  thigh,  explaining  the  line  of  reasoning 
the  girl  .had  employed. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  but  his  voice  was 
that  of  a  broken  man. 

"My  honor — my  reputation,  are  in  your  keeping,  Ma- 
dame," he  muttered. 

But  Moira  caught  him  by  the  hands  in  an  access  of 
generosity. 

"I  render  them  to  you,  Monsieur.  If  Monsieur  le  Juge 
keeps  silent,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  do  so." 

"You  are  very  good,  Madame " 

"It  is  not  your  fault.  You  were  not  familiar  with  the 
studio  as  I  was.  And  besides — you  were  doing  your  duty, 
while  I — it  was  my  life,  my  whole  happiness,  that  was  in- 
volved." 

340 


THE  CLUE 


"And  what  can  I  do  to  repay  you,  Madame?"  he  asked. 

"Find  Monsieur  Tricot !"  she  cried  with  spirit. 

"And  Monsieur  Quinlevin?"  asked  the  Judge  quietly. 

Moira  glanced  at  them,  then  sank  upon  the  couch  and 
buried  her  head  in  her  arms,  but  she  did  not  reply.  She 
could  not.  She  had  reached  the  end  of  her  resources. 

Monsieur  Simon  bent  over  and  touched  her  kindly  on 
the  shoulder. 

"You  had  better  be  going  and  getting  some  rest,  Ma- 
dame. If  you  will  permit  me.  I  am  sure  that  Madame 
iSimon  will  be  glad  if  you  will  let  me  bring  you  to  her." 

Moira  looked  up  at  the  dark  stain  upon  the  floor,  the 
terrible  mannikin,  and  then  rose.  There  were  tears  in 
her  voice  as  she  gave  the  Juge  d'Instruction  her  hand  in 
gratitude. 

"Ah,  thanks,  Monsieur,  you  are  very  kind.  If  it  will 
not  trouble  you " 

And  leaving  the  theater  of  her  life's  drama  to  the  soli- 
tary policeman  on  guard,  she  followed  the  charitable 
Monsieur  Simon  down  the  stair. 

Monsieur  Matthieu  had  already  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
CONCLUSION 

J[M  HORTON  passed  the  night  pacing  the  floor  of 
his  prison,  and  his  interrogation  by  Monsieur  Si- 
mon, the  Juge  d*  Instruction,  with  the  assistance  of 
the  Commissaire  de  Police  in  the  morning  gave  him  little 
hope  of  release.  The  examination  was  severe,  but  his  in- 
quisitors had  not  been  able,  of  course,  to  shake  his  testi- 
mony and  had  left  his  cell  more  puzzled  than  when  they 
had  entered  it.  But  he  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  un- 
less it  were  proven  possible  for  some  one  to  have  been 
in  the  studio  to  commit  the  murder  all  the  evidence  must 
point  to  him.  And  yet  he  could  not  help  them,  nor  could 
he  suggest  a  line  of  investigation.  He  was  still  com- 
pletely in  the  dark  about  the  whole  tragic  affair  and  could 
scarcely  blame  them  for  their  uncompromising  attitude 
toward  himself — and  poor  Piquette — toward  her  also.  He 
sat  upon  the  edge  of  his  cot  for  hours  after  the  examina- 
tion, his  head  in  his  hands,  trying  to  evolve  some  possible 
explanation  of  the  mystery. 

A  more  encouraging  affair  was  the  visit  in  the  late  af- 
ternoon of  a  captain  of  the  regular  army  of  the  United 
States,  representing  the  Judge  Advocate  General's  of- 
fice, who  interviewed  him  in  the  presence  of  an  officer  of 
the  Prefet  de  Police.  And  in  the  course  of  this  investiga- 
tion Jim  Horton  learned  of  Harry's  second  defection  from 
the  army  which  had  resulted  in  his  horrible  death. 

Captain  Waring  questioned  shrewdly,  but  Jim  Horton 
now  needed  no  encouragement  or  threat  to  reveal  the 
whole  truth,  for,  whatever  happened  to  him  at  the  hands 
342 


CONCLUSION 


of  the  Prefet  de  Police,  he  knew  that  there  was  nothing 
left  for  him  but  to  throw  himself  upon  the  mercy  of  the 
Army  officials.  And  so  he  told  the  whole  story,  from  the 
moment  when  as  Corporal  of  Engineers,  he  had  heard  the 
Infantry  Major's  instructions  to  his  brother,  of  his  meet- 
ing with  Harry,  of  his  effort  to  save  his  brother's  name 
and  position  by  attempting  to  carry  out  the  Major's  or- 
ders, the  changing  of  uniforms,  the  fight  at  Boissiere 
Wood,  the  hospital,  and  the  events  that  had  followed  in 
Paris,  leaving  out  what  references  he  could  to  Harry's 
wife,  and  palliating  where  he  could  his  brother's  offenses 
against  the  military  law. 

From  sternness,  he  saw  Captain  Waring's  expression 
change  to  interest,  from  interest  to  sympathy,  and  to 
Horton's  surprise,  when  the  officer  finished  taking  the 
testimony,  he  extended  his  hand  frankly. 

"You  have  committed  a  military  offense,  Corporal  Hor- 
ton.  But  your  story  has  impressed  me.  It  can  be  easily 
verified.  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you  at  Headquarters. 
It  was  your  Croix  de  Guerre,  you  see." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jim,  "but  it  looks  as  though 
I'm  in  a  bad  position  here.  Do  you  think  I  could  have 
done  this  horrible  thing,  sir?  Do  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  Captain,  "but  sit  tight,  Corporal.  I 
think  you'll  find  that  things  will  turn  out  all  right." 

What  did  the  man  mean?  Jim  Horton  followed  his 
neatly  fitting  uniform  out  of  the  cell  with  his  gaze  and 
then,  more  mystified  than  ever  at  this  mingling  of  good 
fortune  and  bad,  sank  again  upon  his  cot  to  try  and  think 
it  out. 

But  he  was  no  sooner  seated  than  the  man  who  had  done 
the  most  to  put  him  where  he  was,  Monsieur  Matthieu,  the 
Commissaire  de  Police,  again  entered  the  cell.  His  man- 
ner during  the  examination  by  the  Juge  d"  Instruction  in 
the  morning  had  been  aggressive — Horton's  ordeal  had 
343 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

been  most  unpleasant,  the  French  counterpart  of  what 
he  had  heard  of  in  his  own  country  as  the  "Third  De- 
gree." But  Monsieur  Matthieu's  ugly  face  was  now  al- 
most kindly,  its  expression  quite  calm.  And  while  Horton 
wondered  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  visit  the  Comrnis- 
saire  explained. 

"Evidence  has  been  introduced  into  this  case,  Mon- 
sieur, which  somewhat  changes  its  complexion." 

"Ah!    You  have  found  Tricot?     Or  Quinlevin?" 

"No — not  yet,  Monsieur.  But  we  have  hopes.  The 
evidence  came  from  another  quarter.  We  believe  that  the 
apache  committed  this  crime." 

Horton  couldn't  restrain  a  gasp  of  relief. 

"It  is  only  what  I  told  you,  Monsieur." 

Monsieur  Matthieu  nodded.  "But  you  will  not  blame 
us  for  not  accepting,  with  some  reserve,  the  testimony  of 
a  person  in  your  position.'* 

"Who  has  testified,  Monsieur?" 

"Madame  Horton." 

And  in  a  few  words  he  described  the  line  of  procedure 
which  had  resulted  in  the  discovery  of  the  part  the  lay 
figure  had  played  in  the  tragedy. 

Moira  had  come  to  the  rescue!  Moira — whose  eyes,  it 
seemed,  had  been  keener  than  his  own,  keener  even  than 
those  of  this  veteran  detective.  And  amazement  at  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  device,  and  the  ease  with  which  it  had  been 
put  into  practice,  made  him  dumb. 

"It  is  always  so,  Monsieur.  The  mysteries  which  seem 
most  difficult  to  solve  are  always  the  simplest  in  concep- 
tion." 

"But  Tricot  .did  not  invent  this  crime,  Monsieur.  The 
apache  is  shrewd,  but  the  brain  that  conceived  this 
plan " 

"I  believe  you  now,  Monsieur.  But  I'm  afraid  that  he 
will  not  be  easy  to  catch.  He  was  at  Fontainebleau  last 
344 


CONCLUSION 


night  and  this  morning.  It  was  his  alibi.  When  my  men 
reached  there,  he  had  gone." 

"And  Tricot?" 

"It  is  as  to  Tricot  that  I  wished  to  see  you.  We  have 
watched  the  house  in  the  Rue  Charron.  Every  haunt  of 
men  of  his  type  is  under  observation.  I  thought  perhaps 
that  you  might  give  us  a  further  clue." 

"Emile  Pochard  should  know.  Pochard  in  the  Rue  Dal- 
mon — under  arrest  he  may  talk " 

"Good,  Monsieur.  The  help  that  you  give  us  will  make 
your  deliverance  the  more  speedy." 

"I  know  nothing  more." 

"You  understand,  it  is  not  possible  to  release  you  until 
the  evidence  is  more  definitely  confirmed.  But  I  will  do 
what  I  can  for  your  comfort  and  convenience." 

"Thanks.     And  for  Madame  Morin?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur.     She  is,  I  think,  now  quite  contented." 

And  the  Commissaire  departed  as  rapidly  as  he  had 
entered.  Presently  Jim  Horton  lay  down  at  full  length 
on  his  bed — the  first  time  since  he  had  been  shown  into 
the  cell.  Everything  would  be  right.  He  knew  it.  And 
it  was  Moira  who  had  come  from  her  retreat  at  the  first 
news  of  his  trouble  and  Piquette'r,  to  help  them.  Behind 
the  reserve  of  Monsieur  Matthieu's  disclosures  he  had  read 
that  it  was  Moira's  will — her  intelligence  that  had  been 
matched  against  that  of  the  Commissaire  and  Barry  Quin- 
levin,  her  instinct — her  faith  in  him  that  had  drawn  her 
unerringly  to  the  neglected  clues.  Where  was  she? 
Would  she  come  to  him  now?  Or  was  the  hypnotic  spell 
of  Barry  Quinlevin  still  upon  her?  He  s>tared  into  the 
darkness,  thinking  of  the  tragedy  of  Moira's  life,  and 
the  greater  tragedy  of  his  brother  Harry's.  But  in  spite 
of  the  terrible  climax  of  Harry's  strange  career  and  his 
own  unwitting  part  in  it,  Jim  Horton  found  himself  re- 
peating Moira's  wild  words,  "No  divorce — but  death " 

345 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

And  this  was  the  divorce  that  neither  of  them  had  wished 
for  nor  dreamed  of.  But  Destiny,  which  had  woven  the 
threads  of  Harry's  life  and  Moira's  and  his  together  for 
awhile,  had  destroyed  the  imperfect  tissue — to  begin  anew. 
In  a  while  Jim  Horton  slept,  soundly,  dreamlessly. 

The  morning  dragged  heavily  and  no  one  came  to  his 
cell.  It  almost  seemed  that  Monsieur  Matthieu  had  for- 
gotten him  and  it  was  not  until  the  afternoon  that  he  was 
again  conducted  to  the  room  in  which  his  examination  and 
Piquette's  had  taken  place.  There  he  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  the  Ju-ge  d' 'Instruction,  who  shook  him  by  the 
hand  and  informed  him  that  word  had  just  been  received 
that  the  apache,  Tricot,  had  been  captured  and  in  charge 
of  Monsieur  Matthieu  was  to  be  brought  at  once  to  con- 
front the  witnesses.  Monsieur  Simon  informed  him  that 
a  partial  confession  having  been  extracted  from  Tricot, 
the  case  was  simplified  and  that  there  seemed  little  doubt 
that  he  would  be  restored  to  freedom  in  a  few  hours. 
While  disposing  of  some  other  cases,  Monsieur  Matthieu 
showed  the  prisoner  into  the  inner  room,  where  Piquette 
had  preceded  him. 

They  were  both  still  technically  prisoners,  but  that  did 
not  prevent  Piquette  from  springing  up  from  beside  her 
guard  and  rushing  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  mon  Jeem!"  she  cried  joyfully.  "I  knew  it  could 
not  be  for  long." 

"Piquette!     They're  going  to  set  us  free!" 

"Oui,  mon  brave.  An'  'ave  you  not  'card?  It  is 
Madame  'Orton  who  'as  make  de  way  clear?  Dey  cap- 
ture' Tricot  an  hour  ago  in  a  cellar  out  near  de  Porte 
Maillot.  You  may  know  dat  I  am  'appy.  Gr !" 

And  she  made  a  queer  little  sound  of  repulsion  in  her 
throat. 

"And  Quinlevin?" 

"Escape' — gone!     Dey  cannot  find  him." 
346 


CONCLUSION 


He  sat  beside  her  and  they  talked  while  they  waited. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Piquette?"  he  asked,  after 
awhile. 

"Do?  Jus'  go  on  living,  mon  vieux.  What  else?"  she 
replied  calmly. 

"I  want  to  help  you  to  get  away  from  him,  Pi- 
quette  " 

"Sapristi!  I  need  no  'elp  for  dat.  Don'  worry,  mon 
ami.  I  s'all  be  'appy " 

"Not  with  Monsieur " 

She  laughed  rather  harshly. 

"Oh,  la  la!  You  are  not  de  on'y  man  in  de  worl* " 

And  then,  as  she  saw  the  look  of  pain  in  his  eyes,  she 
caught  him  by  the  arm  again.  "You  are  de  on'y  man  in 
de  worl' — for  'er — mon  vieux,  but  not  for  me.  You  t'ink 
of  me?  Eh  bien.  What  you  say?  Forget  it.  I  s'all  be 
'appy — and  free." 

At  this  moment  Monsieur  Simon  entered  bringing  no 
less  a  personage  than  Monsieur  de  Vautrin,  who  had  been 
apprehended  as  a  witness  the  moment  he  had  returned  to 
Paris.  And  the  details  of  the  affair  at  Nice  having  been 
set  down,  Monsieur  Simon  went  out  to  question  Tricot, 
who  had  just  been  brought  in  under  heavy  guard. 

The  birth  certificate  and  other  papers  were  still  in 
possession  of  the  Juge  d' Instruction,  but  the  Due  had 
been  permitted  to  examine  them  and  questioned  Horton 
and  Piquette  eagerly  as  to  what  had  happened  after  his 
departure  from  Nice.  And  when  he  learned  the  facts,  his 
gratitude  expressed  itself  in  a  desire  to  kiss  Horton  on 
both  cheeks,  which  Piquette  only  frustrated  by  quickly  in- 
terposing her  small  person. 

"And  I,  Olivier?"  she  asked  in  French  with  a  spirit  of 
diablerie.  "What  is  my  reward  for  helping  in  the  great 
affair?" 

"You,  Piquette !"  he  laughed,  "you  are  as  ever  my  an- 
347 


T^HE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

gelic  child  who  can  do  no  wrong.     Come  to  my  arms." 

But  Piquette  laughed  and  tossed  her  chin. 

"And  if  I  refuse?" 

"Then  you  are  still  an  angelic  child,"  said  de  Vautrin. 
"I  shall  give  you  money — much  money." 

"And  if  I  refuse  that  too?"  she  asked. 

He  started  a  pace  back  from  her  in  amazement. 

"You  would  desert  me  now,  ma  petite?" 

Piquette's  face  grew  suddenly  solemn. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Due.  We  shall  make  no  more  pre- 
tenses, you  and  I.  I  go  back  to  the  Quartier  where  I  am 
free.  Perhaps  one  day  I  shall  marry.  Then  you  shall 

give  me  a  present.     But  now "    And  she  extended  a 

hand,  "Adieu,  mon  ami." 

He  glanced  at  her  and  at  Horton  as  though  unwilling 
to  believe  what  he  had  heard,  then  took  a  pace  toward 
Piquette,  his  arms  extended.  But  she  only  smiled  at  him. 

"C'est  fini,  Olivier,"  she  said  quietly. 

De  Vautrin  pulled  at  his  long  mustache  and  laughing 
turned  away. 

"A  demain,  Piquette "  he  said  confidently. 

"Adieu,  Olivier,"  she  repeated. 

The  Due  stared  at  her  again  and  then  with  a  shrug, 
took  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  swaggered  out  of  the  room. 

"Piquette,"  whispered  Horton  eagerly.  "Do  you  mean 
it?" 

"Yes,  mon  brave,"  she  returned  lightly.    "To  be  free — 

free !"    And  she  took  a  long  breath,  while  she  gazed 

past  him  out  of  the  big  window  into  the  sunshine. 

There  was  a  commotion  outside  and  they  turned  to 
the  outer  door,  as  two  policemen  entered,  between  them 
Tricot,  securely  manacled,  and  followed  by  the  Juge,  the 
Commissaire  de  Police,  Madame  Toupin,  Moira,  Madame 
Simon,  the  carpenter,  Paul  Joubert,  and  the  other  wit- 
nesses whose  testimony  had  already  been  taken. 
348 


CONCLUSION 


Moira's  gaze  and  Jim  Horton's  met  for  a  moment,  full 
of  meaning  for  them  both,  and  then  she  turned  away  to  the 
seat  beside  Monsieur  Simon  to  which  the  Juge  directed 
her.  She  was  very  pale  and  sat  for  a  while  with  eyes 
downcast  during  the  preliminaries  which  led  to  the  confes- 
sion of  the  apache. 

Tricot  stood  with  bowed  head,  listening  to  the  evidence 
against  him,  his  long  arms  hanging  from  his  bent  shoul- 
ders, his  thin  lips  compressed,  his  small  eyes  concealed  by 
the  frowning  thatch  of  his  dark  brows.  He  was  surly 
but  indifferent  as  to  his  fate,  and  answered  the  ques- 
tions of  Monsieur  Simon  in  a  low  voice,  but  distinctly, 
evading  nothing.  His  identification  by  the  carpenter 
Joubert  and  two  others  as  the  man  who  had  emerged  from 
the  room  in  the  hallway  when  the  crowd  had  surged  upon 
the  upper  landing,  caused  him  to  shrug.  The  corrobora- 
tion  of  Madame  Toupin  who  saw  him  leave  the  court- 
yard after  the  murder  only  caused  him  to  shrug  again. 

"I  did  it "  he  growled.     "I've  confessed.     What's 

the  use?" 

"Silence!"  commanded  the  Juge.  "You  will  answer 
only  when  questioned.  Are  these  two  persons,"  indicat- 
ing Horton  and  Piquette,  "the  ones  who  first  entered  the 
studio?" 

"They  are." 

"And  when  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  entered  the  studio, 
you  thought  he  was  his  brother — yonder?"  indicating 
Jim. 

"I  did.     I  made  a  mistake " 

"And  your  motive  for  this  crime,  Tricot?" 

"I  was  paid,"  he  muttered. 

"How  much?" 

"Five  thousand  francs." 

"By  whom?" 

Tricot  paused,  and  then  gasped  the  name. 
349 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

"Monsieur  Quinlevin." 

"Do  you  know  where  Monsieur  Quinlevin  is  now?" 

"No." 

"Would  you  tell  if  you  knew?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  anything  further  to  say?" 

"No." 

Monsieur  Simon  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
door. 

"Take  him  away.  The  proof  is  now  complete."  And 
then  to  the  witnesses,  "You  will  hold  yourselves  in  readi- 
ness to  attend  the  trial.  Bonjour,  messieurs." 

And  rising  from  his  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table  he 
came  over  to  Jim  and  Piquette  and  shook  them  warmly 
by  the  hands,  while  Monsieur  Matthieu,  who  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  proceedings,  quickly  followed  his  example. 

"You  are  now  free,  Monsieur  Horton — Madame  Morin, 
I  thank  you  both,  in  the  name  of  Justice,  for  your  in- 
dulgence and  apologize  for  the  inconvenience  that  has 
been  caused  you.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  keenness  of 
Madame  Horton  yonder,  you  would  still  doubtless  have 
been  languishing  in  your  cells." 

"Thanks,  Monsieur,"  said  Horton  gravely. 

"Let  me  add,  Monsieur  Horton,  that  before  the  mur- 
derer arrived,  I  was  in  consultation  with  Monsieur  le 
Capitaine  Waring  of  the  office  of  the  Judge  Advocate  of 
the  American  Army.  I  told  him  what  had  happened  in 
the  case  and  he  informed  me  that  there  was  no  disposi- 
tion to  make  you  suffer  for  an  act  which  resulted  in  the 
Croix  de  Guerre.  He  empowers  me  to  ask  only  for  your 
parole  to  report  to  him  to-morrow  morning,  at  ten  o'clock, 
to  comply  with  the  military  law.  I  should  say  that  in  the 
end  you  will  have  nothing  to  fear." 

"Thank  God !"  muttered  Horton,  half  to  himself. 

"And  now,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  said  the  Juge, 
350 


CONCLUSION 


with  a  smile,  "Madame  Simon,  Madame  Morin,  perhaps 
we  had  better  leave  Monsieur  the  American  to  give  his 
thanks  to  the  lady  who  has  helped  us  to  liberate  him — 
Madame  Horton " 

"Piquette " 

Horton  turned  around  to  look  for  her  but  she  had  gone. 

The  others  were  already  filing  out  of  the  door  and 
suddenly  Jim  and  Moira  found  themselves  silent,  face 
to  face  by  the  big  window  in  the  sunlight,  amazed  at  the 
sudden  termination  of  the  case,  and  what  it  meant  to 
them.  Their  glances  met  and  a  gentle  flush  stole  along 
the  pallor  of  Moira's  face,  suddenly  flooding  it  from  brow 
to  chin.  Scarcely  daring  to  believe  this  evidence  of  his 
happiness,  Jim  stared  at  her  awkwardly,  and  then  took 
a  pace  forward. 

"Moira,"  he  whispered  at  last. 

"Thank  God,"  she  murmured. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  gently,  as  though  she  were  a 
child,  and  held  her  silently  in  a  moment  of  wordless  com- 
munion. Beyond  the  river  below  them,  the  city  of  their 
tribulations  murmured  as  before,  but  to  them  it  held  a 
note  of  solace  and  of  joy. 

"You  did  this,  Moira — you !"  he  said  at  last. 

"Something  stronger  than  I,  Jim.     Faith,  Hope " 

"And  Charity,"  he  added. 

"I  knew  that  I  must  succeed,"  she  went  on  quickly.  "I 
was  driven  by  some  inward  force  which  gave  me  new 
courage,  and  strength.  It  was  Fiith,  Jim,  the  Faith  in 
you  that  my  blindness  had  lost  in  the  darkness  of  my 
uncertainty — the  Faith  that  I  found  again.  I  had  to 
succeed  where  others  had  failed.  Faith  gave  me  new 
vision — just  in  time,"  she  finished  wkh  a  gasp. 

"You  never  believed  that  I  could  have " 

"No,  never,  Jim,"  she  broke  in  in  a  hushed  voice.    "Not 
for  a  moment.     It  was  too  horrible !" 
351 


THE  SPLENDID  OUTCAST 

She  hid  her  eyes  with  a  hand  for  a  moment  as  though 
to  blot  out  the  stain  of  the  thought.  "I've  wondered 
why  they  didn't  see  as  I  saw.  It's  like  a  dream — all  that 
afternoon  after  Fontainebleau.  I  hardly  seem  to  re- 
member why  I  did  what  I  did.  It  seems  so  easy  now  that 
it's  done.  I  only  know  that  I  prayed  again  and  again — 
that  you — not  he — should  triumph." 

"Quinlevin "  he  muttered. 

She  drew  closer  into  his  arms. 

"He  has  escaped,"  she  said  with  a  shudder.  "Perhaps 
it  is  best." 

"Did  you  find  out ?"  he  began,  but  she  broke  in 

quickly,  reading  his  thought. 

"He  was — my  uncle — my  father's  brother.  Nora  told 
me  everything.  You've  blamed  me  in  your  thoughts, 
Jim " 

"No,  Moira " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  insisted,  "but  I  couldn't  forget  the 
long  years  of  his  kindness — until  I  knew  what — what  had 
happened — the  horror  of  it.  I  ran  away — here.  Even 
then  I  did  not  tell  them  everything.  And  when  they  went 
to  take  him,  it  was  too  late.  He's  gone." 

"You  poor  child.     You've  suffered " 

"I  wanted  to  go  to  you,  Jim — that  night  when  they 
came  to  the  studio.  I  wanted  to — and  again  at  Nice. 
But  I  was  afraid,  Jim." 

"Afraid " 

"Of  myself — if  I  had  gone  to  you  then  .  .  .  our  love 
had  been  so  sweet  a  thing,  Jim — so  pure  and  beautiful. 
I  cotddn't  let  it  be  anything  else.  I  had  never  known 
what  love  was  before.  I  am  afraid,"  she  whispered. 

"But  not  now,  dear?" 

"No.     Not  of  myself  or  of  you.      Only  afraid  that 
it's  all  a  dream — that  I'll  wake  up  imprisoned  by  vows 
that  may  not  be  broken — — " 
352 


CONCLUSION 


"You're  released  from  them  now,  Moira,"  he  said  so- 
berly. 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"And  you'll  marry  me,  dear?" 

''Yes,  Jim.  But  it  would  be  a  sin  for  us  to  be  too  happy 
too  soon." 

"I  can  be  patient " 

"You  won't  be  needing  to  be  too  patient,  Jim,"  she 
whispered,  her  warm  lips  on  his. 

He  held  her  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  where  she  was* 
meant  to  be,  both  of  them  muttering  the  phrases  that  had 
been  so  long  delayed,  while  their  eyes  looked  down  toward 
the  sun-lit  river,  when  suddenly  Jim  felt  the  girl's  fingers 
tighten  in  his  and  he  followed  the  direction  01  her  gaze. 
Across  the  Petit  Pont,  just  below  them,  a  figure  passed, 
a  female  figure  in  a  heavy  coat  with  a  small  hat  that 
they  both  recognized,  set  rakishly  upon  a  dark  head. 

"Piquette !"  said  Moira. 

Jim  was  silent  and  they  watched  for  another  moment. 
Piquette  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  bridge  and  then, 
raising  her  head  quickly,  squared  her  shoulders  and  went 
quickly  along  the  Quai  toward  the  Boulevard  Saint 
Michel,  where  she  was  engulfed  in  the  crowded  thorough- 
fare. 


(1) 
END 


I 


^ 


A     000038108     7 


